The air in the small, cluttered study - tucked away above the ground-floor bookshop - hung thick with the scent of old parchment, ink, and the ever-present mustiness of aging books. Sunlight filtered weakly through the grimy window overlooking a bustling street, illuminating dust motes dancing lazily in the air.
Stacks of tomes, scrolls, and loose papers teetered precariously on every surface, threatening to spill onto the already crowded floor. Shelves groaned under the weight of countless volumes, their leather spines cracked and faded with age. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a refuge from the mundane world outside, but also a reflection of his father’s - and perhaps his own - disorganized mind.
Rhys Thorne sat hunched over a small wooden desk, its surface marred with ink stains and scratches. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he pored over a particularly dense text on arcane theory, the words blurring slightly in the dim light. The sounds of the city outside - distant carts, hawkers’ cries, the general hum of urban life - blended into a dull background noise, barely registering in his awareness.
His father, Elmsworth Thorne, was nowhere to be seen - or rather, he was somewhere in the room, buried amidst the towering stacks of books. Rhys could hear him muttering to himself, a constant stream of fragmented thoughts and half-formed sentences. He shuffled through the paper stacks, perhaps searching for a specific historical account or a rare first edition, utterly lost in his own world of literary discovery.
A half-eaten bowl of porridge sat forgotten on the corner of Rhys’ desk, a testament to his tendency to lose himself in his reading. He raised his head, covering a small yawn, and turned his gaze to the right. His own reflection in the dusty windowpane greeted him, a youthful, lightly freckled and somewhat pale face, framed by unruly black hair that perpetually fell into his eyes. Unnaturally gold eyes - a legacy of his mysterious birth - stared back at him, filled with a mixture of curiosity and quiet determination.
A sudden, sharp rap on the study door startled him, jolting him out of his thoughts. His father barely seemed to notice, continuing his mumbling search. The rapping came a second time, more insistent now.
"Rhys? Are you in there, dear?" a woman's voice called out, muffled by the thick wooden door. It was Mrs. Abernathy, his neighbor and long-time caretaker, her tone laced with a familiar blend of concern and exasperation. "I brought over some fresh bread. And… well, I wanted to see if you were ready for your journey to the Spire."
Rhys glanced around the cluttered study, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. The Sovereign Spire. The entrance assessment. It’s been looming over him for weeks, a daunting prospect that he tried to ignore amidst his studies.
The teens' gaze tore back towards the door once more. Quickly fixing his hair over his eyes, he spared only a brief glance down to his reading before standing up. A treatise on the many applications of fungal ingredients stared back at him from the pages. His father, clueless as any mundane about the ways of the Spire, had always lived by the belief that any answer could be found in a book. So, with no clues of his own as to what the assessment would entail, Rhys had taken that advice to heart, and poured his time into researching anything he could that might help him succeed.
Yet the more he researched, the more he felt hopeless. What if he failed somehow? What if he turned out to be a mundane like his father? The dread of being magicless in a world so teeming with it was daunting. He glanced off to the side, seeing the tip of one of his fathers latest absurd hats peeking over the towering stacks of literature on his way past. He hurried to the door, his heart still a little quickened from the unexpected knocking as he reached out and cracked open the door, peering out.
On the other side stood Mrs. Abernathy, a woman of comfortable proportions with kind, perpetually worried eyes. Her silver hair was neatly tied back, and a simple but clean apron covered her sensible wool dress. She held a small, cloth-wrapped parcel of bread in one hand, and a half-empty basket in the other, likely having just returned from the market. Her gaze immediately softened as she saw Rhys.
"Oh, there you are, dear," she said, her voice a warm, familiar melody. "I was starting to think you'd vanished into one of your father's 'ancient mysteries' again." She offered a small, gentle smile, then glanced past Rhys into the chaos of the study, a sigh escaping her lips. "Is your father still... communing with his parchment?"
Rhys couldn’t help a smile. “Always is. I think he’s waiting for it to commune back,” he muttered, wryly, the woman chuckling softly in return, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Oh, he'll be a happy man then, if those scrolls ever start speaking back. Though I doubt he’d let them get a word in with all the questions he’d be prattling off." Rhys grinned a little at that, rolling his eyes behind his hair.
"Here, fresh from the oven." She offered the parcel of bread, its aroma a welcome counterpoint to the dusty air of the study. He slipped out the door, accepting the bread with a soft word of thanks, the door hanging half shut behind him. As she handed him the bread, Ms. Abernathy paused before lowering her voice slightly, "Are you ready for Monday? The carriage leaves early, you know."
The mention of the Spire set his nerves on end as he took the warm bread, the gentle heat seeping through the cloth. The smile fading from his lips slightly. “Probably as ready as I can be,” he muttered, his head ducking. He wished he knew what to expect, but nobody in his tiny town had ever attended the college before. Well, except for one…
Ms. Abernathy’s expression shifted, her eyes filling with a familiar, maternal concern. Rhys jumped a little as she reached out, her hand gently patting his arm. “It’s natural to be nervous, dear. It’s a grand place, the Spire. And you’re off to do grand things, I’m sure of it.” She paused, her gaze drifting over his shoulder towards the study, then back to Rhys. “Just remember, no matter what they ask you to do, or what grand spells they expect you to weave… you’re still Rhys. The kind boy who helps old Mrs. Abernathy carry her groceries, and always has a good word for everyone, even when you’re lost in your books.”
She gave his arm another gentle pat as he swallowed, ducking his head shyly at her words. “And don’t you worry about being a ‘mundane’,” she added, cutting to the root of his fears in a way that made him flinch visibly. “Your fathers got a mind sharper than any enchanted blade, even without the magic. There’s more than one way to be brilliant, you know.”
Rhys nodded, the words sitting like rocks in his stomach. “R-right…” Still, he couldn’t shake the worries that lingered even with her sweet words. In a world like his, where magic was so interwoven with ones every day of life, he knew being a mundane was more than just a challenge. His father always made the best of it, but Rhys wasn’t sure he could do the same.
Mrs. Abernathy straightened, offering another reassuring smile. “Now, I must be off. Don’t want to leave my own hearth unattended for too long. But I’ll be thinking of you. All the best for Monday!” With a final, warm look, she turned and began to make her way down the narrow hallway towards the stairs that lead to the street. Rhys hung by the door for a moment, waving her farewell as he fought the tide of nerves and worries still clinging to his heart.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, the scent of fresh bread lingering warmly in the air, a comforting counterpoint to the pervasive aroma of aged paper and dried ink that permeated his fathers study. Dust motes danced in the faint shafts of sunlight slicing through the tall, leaded-glass windows, illuminating the stacks of forgotten tomes and scrolls piled precariously on every surface. He sighed as he stepped around a pile, towards the low, tuneless hum of his father lost somewhere in the labyrinth downstairs. ‘Must have headed down while I was outside,’ Rhys thought to himself as he grabbed his unfinished meal off the table and padded downstairs.
Stolen story; please report.
The stairs creaked as he descended down the narrow landing, leaving the door ajar behind him. The air grew warmer as he stepped into the small functional kitchen tucked away in its own room at the back of the bookshop. The room spoke of practicality rather than grandeur: a sturdy wooden table dominating the center, scarred with generations of use, flanked by mismatched chairs his father had collected over the years. A cast-iron stove occupied one wall, giving off a faint, lingering warmth, and shelves above a stone sink were laden with earthenware pots and simple utensils. The scent of Mrs. Abernathy’s fresh bread bloomed stronger here, mingling with the faint, comforting aroma of herbs.
Retrieving a knife and a cutting board, Rhys unpacked the bread and set it down, slicing the still-warm, crusty loaf. It yielded with a satisfying crackle, the soft, homey fragrance filling the air. Rhys couldn’t help a deep breath and a sigh. Mrs. Abernathy’s bread was always the talk of the town, and for good reason. The woman had a gift when it came to baked goods, one of the few major attractions the tiny village still held for the occasional traveller passing through.
Grabbing some cheese and leftover meat from the larder, Rhys set to work on assembling simple sandwiches, his mind trailing off. Only a few more days, and he’d be off to the Spire, to the assessment. The passage of time was ticking away like a steady clock, and he was all too aware of it.
The rustling from the other room ceased, and a moment later the familiar, slightly uneven tread of his fathers footsteps approached, halting in the doorway. “Ah, the scent of fresh sustenance!” Elmsworth Thorne declared, his voice a breathy tone, with a slight crackle like rustled pages, and barely perceptible tremor that was held aloft by a dramatized projection that carried every word. Sometimes, Rhys wondered if his father had once been a carnival ringmaster, with his knack for theatrics, and would often make himself laugh with mental projections of his father dressed to the nines before an audience, introducing a show. It certainly would explain the hats.
Elmsworth's current hat in question was a rather preposterous velvet cap, adorned with an overflowing, brightly colored feather. It didn’t match the slightly disheveled figure beneath it, and eyes that could be keen with focused on text, but took time to adjust behind his spectacles to the domestic scene before him, as if coming back from a trip to another world. “Mrs. Abernathy, I presume, has blessed us again? Is that… is that the legendary ‘lunch’ I hear tales of?” He gestured towards Rhys’ sandwich-making efforts, a knowing smile and teasing twinkle to his eyes.
Rhys rolled his own, a wry smile touching his lips as he handed over the sandwich that his father accepted with a near childlike glee. “You know it,” he chuckled, closing his own sandwich with care and lifting it. The knots in his stomach denied the idea of finding food appetizing at the moment, but he forced himself through a few small, hesitant bites, defiant to the churning anxiety in his stomach.
His father took a generous bite of his own sandwich with a blissful hum. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, his gaze shifting towards his son with a slight cock of his head, the feather in the absurd cap wobbling. He finished his mouthful, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. His gaze, normally so lost in the past, now fixed on his son with a surprising moment of perception.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured, his tone shifting, losing a touch of its usual whimsical detachment. “The grand assessment. It looms, doesn’t it? A formidable beast of parchment and arcane query.” He took another bite, more slowly this time, his gaze lingering on Rhys’ features, not missing the subtle tension in the boy's jaw or the way his hands trembled in response. “Don’t fret so much, my boy. Knowledge, like a well-bound book, holds its own truth. And you, Rhys, have a mind sharper than most.”
“Though,” he shifted, a more chipper tone creeping in. “I must confess, the thought of you conjuring a full-grown elemental or turning a grand professor into a teapot, well… it does add a certain frisson to the mundane.” He winked, but the underlying concern lingered in his gaze. Seeing his sons quiet introversion, he lowered his sandwich, setting it aside for now, and stepped forward.
“What troubles you specifically about this ‘assessment beast’, my boy? Is it the theoreticals? The practical applications? Or perhaps,” he paused, lowering his voice slightly, “the dreadful uncertainty of which circle will claim you?”
Rhys’ head ducked, his thumb running over the crust of the barely touched meal. “...Or if any of them do,” he mumbled in response. The very real chance of him being a mundane like his father, and the fear of it, loomed over them, unspoken until now. His fathers playful demeanor softened completely in response.
Taking a step closer, his voice lost all trace of lightheartedness. “That fear. I know it well, my boy. To live in a world brimming with such… wonder, and to feel oneself on the periphery of it.” He sighed, a deep, resonant sound, and a shadow crossed his face, a rare glimpse into his own unspoken disappointments. Rhys flicked his gaze up, peering at his fathers expression for a moment before an ink-stained hand came to rest on his head, ruffling his messy, layered black hair with a gesture that was familiar, comforting, and tinged with a new gravity.
“But you, Rhys, are not me. I have never felt the stir of… something… within. Never seen the world through quite the same eyes.” His gaze flickered to the layers of hair, and the luminous, golden eyes hidden behind the strands, a hint of intuition in his own gaze. “Even as a babe, there was a vibrancy to you. A… particularity. Like a rare first edition, if you’ll forgive the analogy.” Rhys grimaced, earning a small chuckle from his father and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
"The Spire tests for aptitude, yes, but it also tests for potential. And potential, my boy, comes in many forms. Sometimes, it is not a roaring fire, but a deep, quiet pool, waiting for the right drop to create a magnificent ripple."
He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as if searching for the right words. “You have always been… different. I’ve felt it. A sensitivity to threads unseen. Do not mistake a quiet power for an absence of it.” He patted his son's shoulder, then gave it a warm, comforting squeeze. “Besides,” he added, his voice attempting to lighten with a new earnestness. “Even if by some cosmic oversight they failed to recognize your brilliance... you'd still have the finest collection of books this side of the Sundered Peaks, and a father who thinks you quite remarkable. Though perhaps less prone to spontaneously combusting, which I confess, is a comfort."
His fathers words washed over him, Rhys’ grip on his forgotten sandwich loosening somewhat. He wanted to believe in his fathers words, but it was hard when the chances were still not looking to be in his favor. And the prospect of coming back here, failing the assessment… he loved his father, he loved the bookshop, but the idea of conscripting himself to the same life just felt wrong, somehow. He wanted more…
In an effort to shift his son's focus, Elmsworth spoke again. “Have you considered what sort of magic truly calls to you, Rhys? What path, should they open it, you would wish to walk?” The question lingered in Rhys’ mind for a moment before he shrugged. “At this point, I’ll take anything,” he mumbled, the words feeling a bit hollow even to his own ears.
He paused, then quickly reconsidered. “Well, almost anything.” A faint shudder ran through him. The whole… mind-reading, prophecy-seeking… all that business of the Cosmic Fates he’d heard about? He’d take a hard pass on that one, no thanks. The last thing he wanted was to dabble in people's heads, or worse, their futures. It reminded him too much of the creepy woman that lived on the edge of town. “I’ll pass on the Fates, thanks.”
Elmsworth nodded slowly, understanding in his expression. “Not everyone wishes to gaze into the churning waters of fate, nor have others peer into the quiet corners of their mind. A perfectly understandable aversion, my boy.” He picked up his own sandwich again, taking a thoughtful bite, as if mulling over the intricacies of foresight.
“It’s true that most young aspirants show some inclination by now,” he continued, his voice softer. “A spark, a faint resonance.” Rhys shifted his feet, leaning back against the counter. His father was right on that one. Most people by his age of eighteen had shown at least some kind of… something. Hints of latent magic that made it clear at least what their primary circle would be. Most people got either one or two circles that their magic took to, though everyone always had a ‘primary’ that shone brighter than the other.
“But-” his father continued, drawing him from his reverie. “-magic, like knowledge, is not always so straightforward. Sometimes, the deepest currents run unseen, waiting for the right moment, the right catalyst. The Spire’s assessment isn’t merely about raw power, Rhys. It’s about how you think, how you perceive, how you connect with the arcane world. Your unique perspective, perhaps even your very nature, might be precisely what they seek.”
It always baffled Rhys how, despite his fathers lack of magic, he could claim to know and understand so much of the world. He wanted to dismiss the words on instinct, his gaze dropping to the table. “I guess,” he mumbled, a non-commital response that spoke volumes of his deep-seated doubt. How could his father truly know, being a mundane?
The easy smile faded from his fathers lips, watching the way his son recoiled from the conversation with a look of melancholic understanding. He sighed, a quiet, almost inaudible sound. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice soft, “the most profound truths are those we are not yet ready to speak aloud. And that, my boy, is perfectly acceptable.” He didn’t push further.
“Well,” as if steering away from the sensitive topic, his usual cheerful buster returned to his voice. “Regardless of the arcane path, one must always ensure the proper fuel for the journey. And Mrs. Abernathy’s bread, in my estimation, is an excellent source of scholarly energy.” He took another hearty bite of his own sandwich, a clear signal that the conversation was shifting for now, much to Rhys’ relief. He wasn’t sure he could stand another minute of people trying to reassure him at this point.
“Tell me,” his father continued, chewing thoughtfully and speaking around the mouthful with some difficulty. He swallowed with a noisy gulp before carrying on. “Did you manage to decipher that particularly thorny passage on planar harmonics in the Compendium of Otherworldly Resonances? Old Archmage Thistlewick's theories are quite... dense, wouldn't you agree?”
The kitchen table, once laden with sandwiches, became the comfortable stage for hours of animated discussion. Rhys eagerly took the hook, his eyes lighting up as he and his father dove into the intricacies of planar harmonics, the eccentricities of Archmage Thistlewick's prose, and the many obscured theories found within the dusty tomes of their shared passion. The anxieties of the Spire assessment receded, replaced by the familiar joy of intellectual exploration. It was a comfortable, welcome distraction that stretched well into the night, until the late hour finally prompted Rhys to return to his room, the lingering scent of old paper and fresh bread a comforting lullaby.
