Inkworld

One

The November sun, shy and shrivelled seemed small enough and timid enough to fit within the grasp of his outstretched palm. Ira wondered if his insides would fill with an unknown summer's homely embrace if he clasped his fingers around it, even as the smoke-coloured clouds came rushing in to interrupt his speculations. That brought Ira's attention back to the fountain in front of him and the circle of people kneeling all around him, all of them with their hands outstretched and palms open. It would be difficult for a passerby to ascertain whether they were pledging loyalty to the Obsidian statue of St. Bartholomew rising from the centre of the fountain or demanding alms in his name. In reality however, they were all merely taking a test. Well not a mere test by any means. To many like Ira, it was the most important test of their lives. The Arkanes Institut von Richtofen Entrance Exam.

By the time, the first bead of cold sweat started trickling down Ira's forehead, the invigilator with the droopy moustache and sleepy eyes had gone around and relieved two of the examinees of any burdens and dreams they might have ever harboured of being a practitioner of the Arcane Arts.

No negative thoughts, remember what Peytr said, remember what Kristoff said. Magic is just like joy, like happiness, like the lingering aftertaste of a cup of hot chocolate. And just like joy, it is too easy to lose track of, too easily lost under layers and layers of fear and dread and doubt. Let one shred of indecision in and it spreads like spilled ink, the white paper drowning out in a matter of minutes. No Ira, keep all your uncertainties at bay for once in your life. With bony fingers that bordered on being bones, Ira focussed all his attention on the fountain in front of him. Now, tug with all your will, find that thread of joy and yank it like your life depends on it, because it very well might.

Though Ira struggled to make any headway, around the granite and marble plaza, jubilation and relief exploded into cheers and laughter as someone at last seemed to find their thread. His mid-morning siesta interrupted once again, the Invigilator begrudgingly walked over to the prodigious applicant, sheaves of paper under his arm and quill at the ready. A well-built young man, with a head full of tousled cashew-blonde hair strained to shape the fountain's water into a globule, the size of a snow globe. Magic wrestled with nature and nature pushed back. The globule kept forming and falling apart, water sloshing and spilling on the pristine plaza floors, as it drifted slowly into the air and towards the young man's palm. At long last, with the exertion showing plainly on his face, the young man breathed a sigh of relief as the globule erupted into a miniscule flood within his palm, a moment in time frozen with force and suddenly let gone. And not a moment sooner. The young man dug a Gold coin, drenched and dripping out of his palm and held it aloft for the invigilator to inspect, a smile of pride and anticipation forming at his lips.

"Name, cadet?" asked the Invigilator, preoccupied with wiping his face. There wasn't truly a whole lot to inspect here. He had been way too up close and his fine suit had paid the price, now wet from the spray of the exploding globule. He plucked the coin out of the candidate's hand and noted down his name.

"Congratulations and welcome to the Richtofen Institute."

He said at long last, in a droning tone and with an expression that didn't betray any elation or pleasure he might have genuinely felt.

Ira suddenly realized that he was the only one who was gawking at the stranger's (and a competitor) feat like a spectator with front-row tickets. Everyone else had their eyes peeled on the fountain. Now that one of the coins had been retrieved, the panic was slowly beginning to set in among the examinees. There were only nine more to go around. Nine more chances to put their names on the next day's newspaper, onto next year's list of Imperial honours, onto the next decade's history books. And for someone like Ira, nine more chances to have a roof over their heads, to not be dragged away by the police in the dead of the night and thrown into the next train headed away from the mainland. Even as the tiniest visage of his doomed future reared its head at the back of his mind, Ira grievously tried to muffle it, unaware that he was shaking his head in reality as well.