The old cart groaned under its load of refuse, its wheels slipping occasionally on the icy ruts leading away from the city. Grimm sat amidst the filth, but his mind was far from the stench and the cold. His fingers, numb within his thin gloves, traced the outline of the book hidden beneath his tunic.He could wait no longer. Casting a furtive glance at Old Ham's back, he drew the volume out. The leather cover was tooled with strange, geometric patterns that felt both foreign and ancient under his touch. He frowned, his excitement tempered by a familiar frustration. As a servant, he was not meant to read. It was only through Ham's patience—the old man had once been a merchant's apprentice, long ago, and had learned his letters—that Grimm could decipher basic words. But the script on this cover was unlike any he had seen in the accounting ledgers Ham used for teaching.He squinted, sounding out the unfamiliar letters slowly, piecing them together like a difficult puzzle. "The... Manual

The forge’s heat seemed to intensify, pressing in on Grimm. A gold coin. The words echoed in his mind, a daunting sum that represented security, a future, the entirety of Ham’s careful savings. To risk it on a chance, on the words of a man in a grey robe… it was madness.Sixth Brother watched the conflict play out on his friend’s face. “See? It’s not for the likes of us, Grimm. Walk away.”But as Grimm stood there, the image of the book hidden under his floorboards flashed in his mind—the intricate diagrams of scent, the descriptions of worlds beyond imagining, the promise of a power that could not be taxed or taken away. He thought of the steward’s sneering face, of a life spent bowing and scraping for silver coins that could be stolen on a whim. This was a crack in the door of that life. It might be the only one he would ever get.He met Sixth Brother’s concerned gaze, his own eyes hardening with a resolve that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. “I have to try.”Sixth Brother co

The dead, cooked eyes of the pig-headed candle held Grimm in a paralytic grip. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his spine. The air, already thick and silent, grew heavier, charged with a malignant awareness. This was no hallucination. This was a layer of reality peeled back, and it was insane.A sound shattered the profound quiet.It was a voice, but thin and reedy, like paper being crumpled. “Ha! I have finally breached the Supreme Realm! The sky! The earth! The evil dragons! Nothing can hold me back now!”The voice was brimming with triumphant arrogance, yet it was so ludicrously out of place that Grimm’s fear was momentarily stunned into submission. He turned, his movements slow and dreamlike, toward the source of the noise.It came from a book left open on a lectern, an illustrated volume of the kind nobles read for amusement. He knew the story—a clichéd tale of a commoner’s rise to power and love. An illustration depicted the heroic protagonist standing over

The following morning, the weight of the previous night’s feast felt like a leaden dream. The Sorcerer announced a swift departure, and the newly chosen apprentices scrambled to make ready. Grimm’s mind, however, was on one thing: the cart. The old horse and cart were his last tangible link to Ham, to the simple, honest life he was leaving behind. He wouldn't abandon it.He sprinted through the waking streets toward the Viscount's estate, earning looks of disdain from Lafey and Weid, who were being helped into a luxurious carriage. “He delays us for that?” Weid sneered, watching Grimm run. “That rusted wreck isn’t worth a single silver.”Grimm arrived at the estate gates, breathless. The steward was there, his face a thundercloud of petty tyranny.“You!” the old man shrieked, his voice cracking with rage. “I told you what would happen if you showed your face here again! I said I’d have your legs broken!”Grimm’s eyes scanned the courtyard behind the steward. There it was—his cart, now

The image of the obliterated bandit was burned into Grimm’s mind. The casual, effortless violence of it was not like a knight's combat; it was like a man casually stepping on an ant. It was the absolute exercise of power, devoid of passion or effort. The fear it instilled was cold and profound, but it also fanned the spark of Grimm’s resolve into a determined flame. He would not be the ant.About an hour later, his opportunity came. The others had had their turn. Gilram had asked some obsequious question about focus. Weid had inquired about the types of magic one could learn. Yoric, still visibly shaken, had stammered something about strength.It was Grimm’s turn. He approached the Sorcerer, his heart hammering against his ribs."Master," he began, his voice thankfully steady. "What is the fundamental principle? The… the reason a Sorcerer can wield magical power?"Sorcerer Arrowize stopped walking. The shimmering haze that obscured his face seemed to still for a moment. "The principle