DARK WAR REBORN; From Magicless Boy to World's Hidden Hope

The road into Norwick was as small as always as the cold winds of early winter was beginning to blow, sharp enough to sting the cheeks and numb the fingers. Wade urged his horse onward along the rutted track that served as the main road into the village, his gloved hand resting lightly on the reins while his other arm encircled the slim frame of his son seated before him. Wayne was sixteen, tall for his age, but still narrow in the shoulders and quiet in a way that made him seem younger. He had not spoken a word in hours.

They had left the great city of Highcrest three days ago lost beyond its horizon, its white towers, its glowing arcane lamps, the ceaseless murmur of spell craft that hung in the air like incense. Ahead lay only low hills, scattered sheep, and the huddled roofs of Norwick, a place Wade left twenty years earlier with no intention of seeing it again.

Wayne shifted in the saddle as he asked. “Father, are you certain Uncle Alard will have us?”

Wade replied with a low tune, barely loud enough that his voice was almost lost beneath the creak of leather and the clop of hooves. “So long as he will have you, that is enough.”

The boy said nothing more. He had learned a long time ago that when his father’s voice took on that particular flatness, questions only circled back to silence.

They crested the final rise as dusk bled across the sky, painting the clouds the color of old bruises. Norwick lay below them: a cluster of thatched houses around a stone-walled manor on the hill, smoke curling from chimneys, torchlight flickering at the gate. It was smaller than Wade remembered, or perhaps the world had simply grown larger in his absence.

At the manor gate, two guards in patched mail raised lanterns, their weathered faces became full shock when they saw Wade’s travel-stained cloak and the silver insignia of the High Mage’s Conclave pinned at his throat. They recognized him but didn’t believe their eyes.

“Master Wade?” one ventured. “Gods, it’s been years. Lord Alard is within. He’ll want to see you at once.”

Wade dismounted the horse and lifted Wayne down. The boy’s legs were stiff from the long ride; he swayed for a moment before steadying himself. Wade rested a hand briefly on his son’s shoulder, a rare touch which Wayne haven’t felt in a long time, then they followed the guards inside.

The great hall smelled of woodsmoke and roasted mutton. Rushlights guttered in iron sconces along the walls. At the far end, beneath a faded tapestry depicting some long-dead ancestor slaying a wyrm, sat Alard at the high table. He had grown broader since Wade last saw him, heavier in the jaw, his dark hair now shot with gray. Beside him perched a girl of fourteen by the name Calley with the same sharp cheekbones and wary gray eyes as her father. She wore a simple wool dress, but a short sword lay across her knees as casually as another child might hold a doll.

Alard rose slowly. For a long moment the brothers only looked at each other across the length of the hall. Then Alard broke the silence, his voice rough from disuse in polite company.

“You bring trouble to my door, Wade. I can smell it on you.”

Wade inclined his head. “Trouble enough, brother. But not the kind that will linger here.”

He nudged Wayne forward. The boy stepped into the torchlight, standing straight though his hands trembled slightly at his sides.

“This is my son, Wayne. He will be staying with you for a while.”

Alard’s gaze moved to the boy and lingered for a moment, studying the lad. Calley leaned forward in open curiosity.

“Sixteen years?” Alard said at last. “Old enough for the Academy. The Conclave summons every child of mage blood at twelve now. You know that.”

“I know it.” Wade’s tone was flat again.

“Then why is he not there?” Alard’s eyes narrowed. “Unless…”

He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to. The hall grew quieter; even the servants paused in their work. That alone was enough to tell that everyone knew what he was going to say.

Wade met his brother’s stare without flinching. “History has repeated itself, Alard. The gift skipped him, as it skipped you.”

A muscle jumped in Alard’s cheek. Calley glanced between the adults, sensing the sudden tension the way a hound scents blood.

Alard exhaled through his nose. “You bring me a mage-born boy who cannot cast so much as a spark, and you expect me to raise him among common folk who will whisper ‘cursed’ behind his back?”

“I expect you to keep him alive,” Wade said quietly. “That is all.”

Alard sat down heavily. He rubbed a hand across his beard, staring into the fire.

“You were always the clever one,” he muttered. “The one the gift chose. And now you ride off to war and leave me your failure.”

Wayne flinched at the word, but Wade’s expression did not change.

“Not failure,” Wade said. “It’s only an act of caution. The darkness stirs again, Alard. You must have heard the rumors, the seals cracking in the north, the dead walking in the barrows. The Mistress rises in new flesh, and with her the shadow of Dark Lord Dyrk himself. The Conclave calls every mage who can hold a staff. We ride to find the child of prophecy before the enemy does. I will not have Wayne anywhere near that slaughter.”

Alard looked up sharply. “And if the enemy comes here?”

“Then you will do what you have always done,” Wade replied. “Hold the manor with steel, not spell craft. You were ever the better swordsman.”

A ghost of a smile touched Alard’s mouth, gone almost before it formed.

Calley slid from her bench and approached Wayne. She was small, but there was nothing fragile in the way she moved her balance was firm and she was alert as a cat.

“I’m Calley,” she said. “Your cousin. Father says I’m to show you the house.” She glanced at the short sword still in her hand, then back at Wayne. “Do you fight?”

Wayne hesitated for a moment, “A little. Father taught me the forms.”

“Good,” she said with satisfaction. “We spar at dawn. The boys in the village are lazy. I need proper practice.”

Alard groaned. “Gods preserve us. Wade, your son will be bruised from head to toe within a week.”

Wayne managed an uncertain smell, the first since he left Highcrest.

Wade watched them for a moment, something painfully soft flickering behind his eyes. Then he turned back to his brother.

“I ride at first light,” he said. “There is a gathering at Hidden Plague. From there we will track the signs. It will take months, perhaps years.”

Alard nodded slowly. “Then you will write to us?”

“If I can.”

“And if you do not return?”

Wade’s gaze drifted to Wayne, who now stood beside Calley examining the edge of her blade with careful interest.

“Then tell him I loved him,” Wade said, so quietly only Alard heard. “And that I was proud of him even without the gift.”

Alard rose again and clasped his brother’s forearm in the old way liken warrior to warrior, not mage to mund.

“Stay the night at least,” Alard said. “Eat. Drink. Let the boy sleep in a proper bed before you vanish into the dark.”

Wade allowed himself one slow breath. “One night.”

Later, after the mutton was eaten and the hall emptied, Wade found Wayne in the small chamber that had been prepared with a narrow bed, a single arrow-slit window looking out over the moors. Moonlight silvered the floorboards.

Wayne sat on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed, staring at his hands.

“I could have borne the Academy,” he said without looking up. “The laughter. The pity. I am not ashamed and they won’t break me.”

Wade closed the door softly behind him.

“I know,” he said. “But I am ashamed enough for both of us. And I will not watch you broken for sport while I chase shadows across the kingdom.”

Wayne’s voice cracked. “Will you come back?”

Wade crossed the room and knelt so their eyes were level.

“I will fight to come back,” he said. “Every step, every spell, every drop of blood will be to return here. But if the worst comes, know this: you are not less because the gift passed you by. You are my son. That is power enough.”

He pressed something into Wayne’s palm, a small crystal pendant on a leather cord, warm to the touch.

“This holds a single word of warding,” Wade said. “My last one. If death comes for you, break it. It will carry you far and fast. Promise me you will keep it close.”

Wayne closed his fingers around the pendant. “I promise.”

Wade pulled his son into a fierce embrace, brief and hard, the way men do when tenderness feels too much like weakness.

At dawn, Wade rode out alone. He did not look back.

Wayne stood on the manor steps beside Calley and watched the road until his father was only a speck against the gray hills, then nothing at all.

Calley nudged him with an elbow. “Come on, let’s have breakfast and then swords.”

Wayne took a deep breath, “All right,” he said still full of questions as to why his father really brought him to Norwick and had to leave him there.