THE FLOWER MAN

Everyone in Aldenmere knew three things about Franklin Dawnric.

First of all, he drank too much and chased women he had no business chasing. Worse, he had not produced a single flicker of magic in nineteen years of living. 

In a town where a man’s worth was measured by the strength of his pulse and the intensity of his magical powers, Franklin was the bottom of the food chain, he was as useful as a rusted, broken blade.

His father had stopped looking him in the eyes two years ago, as if the very sight of his son was a stain on the family honor. His stepmother sent him money every week with a gentle, public warmth that made neighbors sigh and whisper about what a generous, saintly woman she was to keep such a loser like him afloat.

His stepbrother, Davan, had taken to introducing himself as an only son because of the shame Franklin brought. It was a blatant lie of course, but it was practically accurate enough that nobody ever bothered to correct him.

Franklin didn’t mind any of it. Or so everyone believed.

He was sitting outside the Ember Tavern, a wooden cup balanced on his knee and his boots crossed at the ankle, when Commander Reth rode into the square on a horse.

The governor’s testing banner snapped in the wind above him, and half the town trailed behind like a mindless, buzzing parade. Reth was the strongest man in Aldenmere and he boasted of it every chance he got.

The testing stone in his saddlebag was a heavy, dull-looking relic that he treated like a holy artifact. Today, it would prove his superiority once again by confirming that everyone else in the town was lesser than him.

The strength testing happened every few years. Men lined up, pressed their palms to the stone, and watched it flare with colors that revealed their magical ranks. Reth recorded it all in a leather-bound book destined for Governor Vale’s desk by nightfall. 

Strong magical men got noted for service, men of moderate power got noted with polite, dismissive nods, while men with nothing to show got a thick, black line through their name, blacklisting them to everyone as outcasts.

Franklin watched the process from his barrel like a man watching a storm he didn't intend to get wet in. He held his cup with a loose grip, his eyes tracing the movement of the crowd with no interest at all.

He was the last one tested. Reth barely spared him a glance, his hand already moving to the stone with a bored expression. Franklin stood up and extended his palm. Unlike the other men, he didn't lean in or pray that his magical rank would be topnotch. He just stood there, waiting for what he knew would come already.

When the stone stayed completely dark a ripple of sound went through the crowd, ringing in his ears. Reth was already turning away, his mind clearly on his upcoming dinner, when the afternoon light hit the crystal hanging at Franklin's collar. It suddenly flared with a sudden, impossible glow of deep, ancient amber.

Reth stopped dead in his tracks.

He spun back, staring at the crystal in absolute shock. It was old, deep, and thick with a raw, concentrated power that any trained eye could read from three feet away. A crystal like that didn't belong around the neck of an ordinary town drunkard. It belonged in a treasury or around the neck of a high-ranking lord!

Reth reached out quickly, his hand snapping shut around the amber.

Franklin’s hand moved to catch his wrist, then he stopped. He watched Reth tuck the crystal into his coat and turned to walk away. Franklin’s heart pounded with anger as everyone else continued to mock him.

.

Reth had been riding for about twenty minutes when Franklin appeared in the road ahead of Reth’s horse without a sound. He had simply appeared out of nowhere, using the same magic he’d concealed for years.

"My crystal," Franklin said, his voice was flat and his eyes were cold.

Reth pulled on the reins of his horse, his eyes narrowing. At first, he thought Franklin had chased him, but he wasn’t sweating or showing any signs of fatigue. Then he looked into Franklin’s eyes, and for a fleeting second, his own confidence faltered. He stared at the weak drunkard and scoffed proudly.

"Come and take it," Reth sneered, trying to regain his stature.

The fight lasted exactly ninety seconds.

Franklin didn't need to use any drop of his hidden magic. He fought with an ancient style Reth had never seen, one that was too powerful to stop. It was the movement of a man who had practiced this moment a thousand times in his head, going over every strike until it was perfect.

He struck Reth down from his horse the first time, but he managed to get up, but the second time, Reth stayed down. He groaned, clutching his ribs, and looked up at a face he did not recognize. 

The man standing over him wasn't the town drunk; he was a predator who had been keeping his claws sheathed for a very long time.

Franklin bent down and the crystal from Reth’s coat pocket with steady, careful fingers. He looped it back around his neck, looking down at the broken commander with a mix of indifference and pity. 

"Safe journey, commander," Franklin said. He didn't offer him a helping hand or boast. He just simply turned and walked back toward the tavern, his pace slow and steady.

Reth sat in the dirt, the dust of the road clinging to his expensive uniform. He touched his split lip with the back of his hand, watching the blood drop against his skin. He looked at the retreating back of the man he had spent years mocking, and then he looked up at the governor’s hall perched at the top of the hill.

The shock was beginning to fade, replaced by a cold, frantic fear in his blood. He scrambled to his feet, his legs shaking. He began to walk, then picked up his pace, and by the time his boots hit the hall’s stone steps, he started to run. 

The secret was out, even if only one man knew it. And that man knew he had to reach the Governor before the "useless" drunkard did.