Lance was still laughing.
I, on the other hand, was still in shock.
The letter sat in my hands, its words as sharp as a dagger to the gut. My name. The official seal of Arcanis. The undeniable declaration that I had been chosen to take the entrance exam.
I rubbed my eyes, hoping I was hallucinating.
I opened them again.
The letter was still there.
No. No, no, no, no. This had to be a mistake. A cruel, twisted mistake.
Lance wiped a tear from his eye. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"This isn't happening," I muttered, shaking my head.
"Oh, it's happening." He pointed at the letter, barely holding back another laugh. "Asher Ardent. Future student of the most prestigious magic academy in the world. I swear, this is divine punishment for all the times you called me an idiot."
I grabbed his tunic. "Lance. Think. How do we undo this?"
He just grinned. "You're assuming there's an undo button."
I groaned.
Lance stretched, tossing a small rock into the grass. "Welp, looks like your life's officially over. Better start saying your goodbyes."
I glared.
He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Try not to trip into another disaster on your way home, yeah?"
Then he walked off, still chuckling to himself.
I stared after him, still gripping the letter.
I had never felt so doomed in my life.
Step One: Denial.
By the time I made it home, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the lingering hues of deep purple and burnt orange in the sky. The narrow dirt path leading to our cottage was bathed in the soft glow of fireflies, flickering like tiny stars trapped on earth. A crisp evening breeze carried the scent of damp earth and freshly cut wood, rustling through the trees as if whispering secrets.
I hesitated at the front door, my pulse a steady drumbeat in my ears. The hinges let out a long, groaning creak as I pushed it open, the sound far too loud in the quiet night, like a herald announcing my return.
Inside, the warmth of home wrapped around me, a stark contrast to the chill outside. Golden lantern light flickered against the wooden walls, casting dancing shadows over the familiar clutter of books, trinkets, and half-finished enchantments. The scent of roasted herbs and simmering stew still lingered in the air, a testament to my mother's cooking.
She stood by the worn wooden table, setting out plates with the precision of someone who ran a tight household. Her sharp eyes, the kind that missed nothing, flicked up the moment I entered. My father, broad-shouldered and still carrying the faint scent of smoke and iron from the forge, sat by the fireplace, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
Both of them turned to me at once.
Their gazes landed immediately on the parchment clutched in my trembling fingers.
I had no chance.
My mother's face softened, her lips parting in quiet wonder. "Oh, Asher."
My father set the knife down with deliberate care, his calloused hands resting on his knees. His voice was steady, expectant. "Let us see it."
My thoughts were a frantic storm. My instincts screamed at me to lie, to shove the letter into my pocket, to crumple it up and toss it into the fire before the words could take root. To pretend none of this had ever happened. As if reading my thoughts, my mother didn't wait for me to hand it over, she snatched it with the speed of a seasoned hawk. Her eyes scanned the words, breath catching. Then, she let out a strangled laugh. A mixture of disbelief and overwhelming pride.
My father, ever the quieter one, reached for the letter next. He didn't rush. He didn't exclaim. He simply held it in his calloused hands, reading each line with the patience of a man who had spent his life shaping metal, knowing that true strength took time to forge. When he finally exhaled, it was deep and steady. He nodded once, slow and deliberate, as if sealing some unspoken agreement with himself.
That single nod made my stomach sink.
This was real.
This was happening.
My mother turned to me, her eyes alight with something fierce, something unstoppable. She clutched the letter to her chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. "My boy. My son. An Arcanis candidate!"
I forced a smile, my face stiff as I tried to summon even a shred of enthusiasm. "Haha. Yeah. Great news."
"Great?" She nearly smacked me. "This is a miracle, Asher!"
Her voice trembled on the edge of laughter and tears, and my father's steady presence beside her only made it worse.
The celebration was inevitable.
The moment the shock wore off, my mother became a whirlwind of motion, pulling out every half-prepared dish in the kitchen, lighting more lanterns as if the occasion required extra warmth. My father, though far less vocal, disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a bundle of firewood, tossing a few extra logs into the hearth. The flames roared to life, filling the house with a golden glow.
The table, usually set with quiet efficiency, became a feast of mismatched plates and hastily assembled dishes. Fresh bread, roasted vegetables, thick slices of smoked meat, and a tart my mother had been saving for no particular reason. She claimed it was fate. My father merely chuckled and poured us all steaming mugs of spiced cider.
"To Asher," my mother declared, raising her cup high. "A future Arcanis mage!"
I barely managed to lift mine in return before she pulled me into a crushing embrace. My father clapped me on the back, his version of affection, solid, steady, grounding. The warmth in their eyes should have been comforting. It should have filled me with something other than this gnawing sense of dread.
We ate. We laughed. For a while, I let myself exist in their happiness, allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the worst thing in the world.
The celebration stretched late into the night, laughter and warmth filling every corner of our little home. My mother kept finding excuses to refill my plate, her eyes still shining with pride. When the last of the dishes were cleared, my mother turned to me, hands on her hips. "You should sleep. Tomorrow, we start preparing."
"For what?" I asked, half-dreading the answer.
She scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "For your journey, of course! You'll need supplies, travel clothes, a sturdy bag…"
"Mira," my father interrupted, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Let the boy breathe."
She huffed but relented, turning back to me with a gentler expression. Then, without warning, she pulled me into a tight hug, arms wrapping around me with a fierceness that almost knocked the air from my lungs.
"I'm so proud of you, Asher," she whispered. "So, so proud."
Before I could even think of a response, my father joined in, a strong arm pulling me close. He didn't say anything, just held me there for a moment, his grip steady and sure.
"Sleep well, son," he murmured.
They pulled away, but not before my mother ruffled my hair and my father gave my shoulder one last squeeze. Then, with tired but content smiles, they disappeared into their room, leaving me alone with the quiet.
Step Two: Desperation.
That night, I stared at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight.
The house was silent, save for the distant hooting of an owl outside. The letter sat on my bedside table. Like a brand burned into reality, refusing to let me pretend.
I thought about tearing it up.
But what good would that do? They had my name. They knew.
I pulled the blankets over my head. Maybe, if I just stayed in bed forever, they'd forget about me.
Spoiler: They wouldn't.
Morning came far too soon, golden light slipping through my window, chasing away the restless hours of doubt. But instead of clarity, I woke up with only one undeniable conclusion.
I needed to escape.
Step Three: Stupidity.
Morning came far too soon, golden light slipping through my window, chasing away the restless hours of doubt. But instead of clarity, I woke up with only one undeniable conclusion.
I needed to escape.
The smell of freshly baked bread and herbs drifted through the house, a stark contrast to the pit of dread in my stomach. When I stepped into the kitchen, my mother was already bustling about, setting out breakfast, humming under her breath. My father sat at the table, sipping his tea, his expression unusually relaxed.
"You barely slept," my mother said, eyeing me like only a mother could.
I forced a yawn. "Too much excitement, I guess."
She beamed. "That's to be expected! You have a week until you leave, but we should start preparing. We'll need to gather supplies, pack your things…"
"Plenty of time," I interrupted, shoving a piece of bread into my mouth.
My father nodded approvingly. "We'll make sure you have everything you need."
Guilt twisted in my gut. They really believed this was happening. That I was meant for this. Before they could say anything else, there was a loud knock at the door.
"Ah," my mother said, wiping her hands. "That must be Lance. He came by earlier, but I told him to let you rest."
I barely had time to process that before the door swung open, and there he was, looking far too smug for my liking, an apple already in hand.
"You," I said flatly.
"Me." He took a bite of the apple and waltzed into the kitchen like he owned the place. "Morning, Mrs. Ardent. Mr. Ardent."
My parents greeted him warmly. Of course they did. He was practically family.
I shot him a look, and he raised an eyebrow in response. He knew something was up.
"Mind if I steal Asher for a bit?" he asked, already turning toward the door. "We'll be back before breakfast gets cold."
My mother shooed us off. "Go on, but don't be long."
I didn't have much of a choice. Lance had already grabbed my arm, steering me outside.
The morning air was crisp, the sun creeping over the horizon. We walked in silence until we were out of earshot, where Lance finally turned to me, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"You're planning to run away aren't you?" he said, crossing his arms.
"Of course I am."
Lance snorted. "Buddy. If the most powerful magical academy in the world picks you, do you really think they're just gonna go, 'Oh well, guess we'll just let him go'?"
I glared. "What's the alternative, huh? Going?"
Lance spread his arms. "I mean, yeah."
I clenched my jaw. "See, this is why you're an idiot."
He propped his chin on his hand, eyes glinting. "What's your grand plan, then?"
"Simple," I muttered. "I leave. I vanish. I find work somewhere far enough that they won't look for me."
Lance blinked. Then he let out a low whistle. "You really don't know how this works, do you?"
I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He stretched his arms, as if preparing to deliver the final nail in my coffin. "When Arcanis picks you, Asher, you don't say no. It's not an invitation. It's a summoning."
I stared at him.
He continued, voice dripping with amusement. "You either show up willingly… or a portal rips open under your feet and brings you."
I felt the color drain from my face. "That's a joke. That has to be a joke."
"Nope."
"That can't be legal!"
He grinned. "It's Arcanis. They are the law."
My breath hitched. "There has to be a loophole. A way out."
Lance simply sat back, watching me spiral. "Want to test it?"
No. No, I did not want to test it.
But I wasn't giving up yet.
Step Four: Regret.
First, I tried bribery.
I ran straight to my parents.
First, I tried bribery.
I ran straight to my parents.
"Mother. Father. Listen." I set a pouch of silver on the table with great urgency, looking them both in the eye. "I'll pay you to forge a letter rejecting the offer."
Silence.
My father blinked once. Then twice.
My mother's face slowly morphed from confusion… to disbelief… to something far more dangerous.
"With what money?" my father asked, his voice carrying the weight of someone desperately hoping their child wasn't as foolish as they appeared.
I swallowed. "Uh. My savings."
My mother, still utterly silent, emptied the pouch onto the table. Three silver coins clinked against the wood, pitiful in the vast space between us. She stared at them. Then at me. Then back at the coins.
Lance, who had wisely kept his mouth shut up until now, let out a low whistle. "Wow. I didn't realize Arcanis only charged three silver for tuition. What a deal."
I resisted the urge to chuck the pouch at his face.
"A… starting amount?" I tried weakly.
The silence deepened. My father rubbed a hand down his face. My mother, on the other hand, inhaled sharply, then smacked me upside the head.
"Asher Ardent, are you out of your mind?" she half-laughed, half-exclaimed, eyes shining with something between exasperation and amusement. "You, bribe us? To reject Arcanis? Do you hear yourself?"
"I just…I thought…"
"Oh, I know what you thought," she huffed, hands on her hips. "That you could march in here with pocket change and we'd just, what? Lie to the most powerful magical institution in the world?"
My father leaned forward, expression calm but firm. "Son," he said, "do you have any idea what kind of future this offers you?"
I gritted my teeth. "Of course I do."
"Then why are you fighting it?"
Because I was terrified. Because it felt too big, too sudden, too impossible. Because the idea of walking through those towering halls and standing among prodigies made my stomach twist into knots.
But I couldn't say that.
Instead, I threw up my hands. "I just… don't want it."
"Asher," My mother sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We're proud of you. So proud it hurts. But no amount of silver, no matter how much, would ever make us stand in the way of this."
I deflated.
Lance, now thoroughly enjoying himself, propped his chin on his fist. "Tough luck, buddy."
I shot him a glare. "Shut up."
He smirked. "What's next? Begging?".
Moving to plan B.
Bribery had failed. Begging had failed. My parents, for all their love and support, had firmly planted themselves on the absolutely not side of this argument.
So, naturally, I turned to fraud.
Lance followed me as I stormed into town, hands behind his head, whistling like this was all some grand entertainment for him. "So, what's the plan now?"
"Simple," I muttered. "If I can't reject the offer myself, someone else will."
That's how I found myself in the dimly lit shop of the village scribe, a frail old man who looked like he'd been alive since magic was first discovered. He sat hunched over his desk, quill trembling slightly in his ink-stained fingers.
I cleared my throat. "I need a letter written."
He barely looked up. "One silver per page."
"Perfect." I slid a silver coin onto the desk, then clasped my hands together. "Dictate this exactly."
The scribe dipped his quill, waiting.
I straightened my shoulders and began.
"To the Esteemed Academy of Arcanis,
I regret to inform you that Asher Ardent has suffered a tragic accident and is no longer available to attend."
Lance choked.
I ignored him.
"Sincerely," I continued, "a totally legitimate authority figure."
I slid the letter across the table, heart pounding.
The scribe peered at me over his spectacles, expression utterly unimpressed. "You are Asher Ardent."
I forced a smile. "No, I'm his twin brother. Basher."
Lance pressed a fist against his mouth, shaking with barely contained laughter.
A full minute of silence passed.
"Get out of my shop, boy."
I sighed, snatching my coin back. "Worth a shot."
Lance threw an arm around my shoulders, grinning like an idiot. "I gotta say, Bash, this has been a delightful morning."
I elbowed him. Hard.
I marched back home, dragging my feet in defeat.
Lance followed at a leisurely pace, like my impending doom was just another mildly amusing morning activity. He was still munching on that stupid apple, completely unbothered. My father was still rubbing his temples like he had a headache. My mother had her arms crossed, deep in thought, her expression very much the look of someone reevaluating her entire life's choices. The untouched breakfast still resting on the kitchen table. As soon as I entered, both turned toward me.
My mother exhaled loudly. "So? Did you bribe the scribe too, or did he also laugh you out of the shop?"
I grimaced. "N…Neither."
She raised an eyebrow.
"…I tried to trick him into forging a letter."
My mother closed her eyes for an extended, deep breath, while Lance, ever the helpful friend, clapped me on the back. "At least you're persistent."
I glared at him.
"Alright," my mother finally said, rubbing her temples. "So what's next? You going to try setting fire to the letter?"
I stiffened.
"…That reminds me of the fact that I wanted to grab something from my room."
She frowned. "You haven't even touched your breakfast, dear."
"Not hungry!" I called back, already halfway up the stairs.
"Stress eating is a thing, you know!" she called after me. "Maybe you should try i…"
I shut the door before she could start listing all the ways food could soothe the soul.
Fine. Plan C.
If I couldn't reject the offer, and I couldn't fake my own tragic demise, then maybe, just maybe, if I destroyed the letter itself, the acceptance would be revoked.
I grabbed my knife, inhaled deeply, and slashed the parchment in half.
For one glorious second, I thought I had won.
Then, with a soft shhhk, the two halves knit back together.
I froze.
The letter laughed.
Not a normal laugh. A faint, whispered chuckle, like a scholar amused by a foolish child.
I dropped the letter and bolted.
I ran downstairs so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet.
Lance blinked. "That was fast."
"I'll be back!" I shouted over my shoulder. Probably. Hopefully.
"Asher, where are yo…?" My mother's voice barely registered as I shot past them and out the door.
Lance sighed, still in the middle of his first apple, and took an exaggerated bite before trailing after me. "Plan D?"
"Plan D."
I ran.
I had barely made it past the riverbend, when the air rippled. A hum built around me, a pressure that made my skin prickle. The world tilted. Reality folded.
And then.
The ground vanished.
There was no warning. No sound. No slow descent.
One moment, I was running.
The next, I was falling.
The sky twisted above me, the world warping, bending, stretching, light and shadow twisting together like an unholy mess of colors.
I tried to scream. Air rushed past me, weightless and endless. My limbs flailed, grasping at nothing.
Then…
I landed.
Not on solid ground. Not on dirt or stone.
No.
I landed in the middle of my kitchen.
Right in front of my parents.
And Lance.
Who had just walked back inside.
The room went dead silent.
My mother's hands flew to her mouth. "Great heavens!"
My father knocked over his chair. "What in the…?!"
Lance, still completely unbothered, picked up a second apple from the fruit bowl and took a slow, deliberate bite.
"Told ya."
I collapsed onto the floor.
I was doomed.