Magika [Completed]

Chapter 1

Will I kill another cape today?

Aldeheid leaned against the windowsill and looked down at his hands. They were no different than any other magician's. Ten fingers, like everyone else. Lines running through his palms, like everyone else. But his hands killed capes.

Unlike everyone else.

"Ready?" Berard's voice cut through his idle pondering. He'd almost forgotten he wasn't alone in the hall. His friend stood before him like an angel of death sent to whisk him to the other side. If only that were the case. Berard was to escort Aldeheid to the Etheria Bastion's heart, where he'd meet his potential cape. Or potential victim.

"No." Aldeheid started down the hall anyway. As they walked, his feet itched with the temptation to turn and run away. More than once, he gave a longing look back down the corridor, like a puppy who'd been thrown out into the cold. His time would be better spent pouring over tomes and scrolls until he figured out what was wrong with him. But defiance was not in his nature.

"Being nervous about it won't help you," Berard said. "Try to relax."

"I suppose." Aldeheid's face twisted into a scowl. Everyone seemed to think they had the solution to his problem.

It's because you're nervous, they said. 

It's because you say the spell a certain way, they said.

Just keep trying, you'll get there, they said.

He didn't need any more useless advice.

His eyes scanned the hall, looking for the usual distractions to veer his attention from what was about to happen. He'd walked this way so many times that he knew the walls and floors better than the person who'd built them. He knew that the windows sat at three meter intervals, on one side of the hall, and sconces were in two meter intervals on the other. He knew that there were exactly thirty-seven mundane paintings and two alcoves, and of the 3,836 variegated stone tiles on the floor, exactly nine hundred were a darker shade of grey than the others.

But most importantly, he knew it did nothing to calm his racing heart.

They stopped in front of the polished wood doors of the antechamber. Voices drifted in from another set of doors further down, carrying the hushed urgency of child-like anticipation.

Berard clapped Aldeheid on the shoulder. "May the gods favour you, my friend."

May the gods do everyone a favour and strike me dead. He opened the door to the antechamber and slammed it with enough force to rattle the windows, as though the wooden barrier could shut out all his problems.

The room's lone occupant jumped and swiveled her head around, her glossy black tresses swaying with the motion. She stared at him with wide, green eyes, one hand over her heart and the other clutching a dagger.

Excellent work, Aldeheid, he thought to himself. Such a stellar first impression. "My apologies," he said, stepping around the stuffy furnishings with care. He approached her slowly, like she was a deer that would bolt at the slightest hint of danger. "I'm Aldeheid." He extended his marked hand, palm up, as was customary.

"Gwen." She placed her pale, dainty hand in his. The elegant swirling lines of her mark were a stark contrast to the sharp jagged nature of his.

Aldeheid felt the magic pulsing through her. Magic he may be free to use if he didn't ruin their trial. Magic another magician would use as a source of their power when he ruined their trial.

He couldn't help but notice how small she was. Granted, everyone was small compared to him, but she was only a head above his waist. That, coupled with her delicate bone structure and lithe form, made her a beauty. And made him feel worse about what was going to happen to her.