"They who monger peace are akin to humanity itself. Cast aside the blade, for it breeds only ruin. Yearn instead for the day when swords are smelted into tools and war is but a forgotten shadow."

  —From The Briars of the Sacrificed

  Ellias fidgeted with his fingers, his hands clammy despite the cool, musty air of the stone chamber. The room smelled of damp stone and aged parchment, carrying a stillness that pressed down on him. His stomach churned uneasily, a deep, hollow gurgling that made him feel as though his insides were being slowly eaten away. He swallowed hard, but the sensation remained—a gnawing mix of nerves and dread.

  What’s the worst that could happen? he asked himself, gripping his wrist to keep his hands from trembling. He had always been restless, his fingers seeking something to toy with when he was anxious.

  Well… worst case? came the answering thought, unbidden and unwelcome. He throws me out. Tells me I’m nothing. Sends me back to the farm, where I’ll spend the rest of my life breaking my back in the fields, staring at the same sky, watching the same seasons roll by until I’m too old to lift a plow.

  The thought made his stomach tighten further. It should have been a comforting alternative. A simple life—one with security, routine, and certainty. But for now, he wanted more. It felt like looking at a locked door, knowing that just beyond it lay something greater, something vast.

  And he had no key.

  The Attuned man lived within this very building—something Ellias had never considered possible. He had spent years in Harrowstead, running along its winding dirt paths, playing between its thatched-roof cottages, but this place had always felt different. The cold, uneven structure had loomed like a forgotten relic, home only to dust and the whispered names of children who had come before him, stepping into their futures.

  Yet someone lived here. Someone who held answers.

  He had barely slept the night before. His thoughts had refused to settle, his mind turning over the ceremony again and again, trying to grasp its meaning. He had tossed and turned, unable to escape the weight of it all. Was he imagining it, or had something within him truly changed?

  In the moments when exhaustion finally dragged him under, he dreamed. He saw himself wielding magic like the heroes of legend, casting fire with a flick of his wrist, commanding the elements as though they were an extension of his own breath. He saw himself among companions—not bound by blood or duty, but by choice. A fellowship that accepted him for who he was, not for the station he was born into.

  But then the dreams faded, and the morning had arrived too soon.

  His straw-stuffed bed beside Mr. Keller’s barn had done little to ease his exhaustion. Every creak of the wooden beams, every rustle of hay had made his skin prickle. Sleep had come in broken fragments, and when he finally awoke, it was with a start—his body stiff, his mind clouded with fatigue. It had taken only a heartbeat for dread to settle in his chest.

  He had overslept.

  That was why he had sprinted through the village, feet pounding against the dirt roads, weaving between carts and startled villagers, his breath ragged by the time he reached the Attuned man’s dwelling. And now, here he was—standing in this cold, unwelcoming antechamber, his thoughts tangled and uncertain.

  His gaze drifted to the single window, the only glimpse of the world beyond this stone enclosure. The glass was fogged with age, streaked with grime, but through it, he could make out the sky. The sun was high—nearly midday. Normally, by this time, children would be finishing their chores, preparing to step into adulthood.

  But what does adulthood mean for me now? he thought, normally he was not that intrested in marriage and plowing neither woman nor fields but feeling the chance slipping away from his fingers he became more concerned with these topics.

  He had been told that after the ceremony, he was free. He could marry, take land, begin a trade—farming, hunting, gathering herbs in the wilds. By this age, a child should be experienced enough to survive on their own. And yet, most stayed with their families until the day of their marriage.

  Ellias felt his hands go still. He had been standing here too long, lost in thought. What if the Attuned man never came? Should he come again later? Leave?

  Before he could decide, the door before him creaked open, just a fraction—barely enough to reveal the shadowy figure beyond. Then, with a low groan, it swung wider.

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  The Attuned man looked even older in the daylight. The lines on his face were deeper, his expression unreadable. He wore a rough, gray tunic, its fabric folded over itself in layers. None knew what the folds contained—alchemical ingredients, spell tomes, or perhaps weapons of a time long past.

  “There you are, young man. How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

  Before Ellias could find his voice, the man continued.

  “Well, now that you’re here, accompany me, will you not?”

  It was not a question.

  “Y-yes, sir. Mr. Attuned, sir.” Ellias winced at his own stammering. Fool. He wasn’t usually like this—he had always been confident, even bold at times. Even Mr. Keller had once said he had the confidence of a man with nothing left to lose.

  The Attuned man gave a small huff of amusement. “Aiden Fletcher. Aspirant of the Aether and Mixologist,” he said, voice even, measured.

  “You may call me Elder Fletcher.”

  Ellias barely had time to nod before the man turned sharply and strode forward, motioning for him to follow. Despite his age, his steps were quick, precise.

  Ellias hurried after him. “Where are we going?”

  Elder Fletcher did not slow his pace as he responded, “Young man, do you know what governs the world you live in? Or better yet—have you chosen the hill upon which you will die?”

  Ellias blinked. “I-I don’t… What?”

  The old man chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Most people spend their lives picking one thing above all others, willing to defend it to their last breath. But never mind that.”

  He suddenly stopped, tilting his head toward the branches overhead. “Ah. A Songsbane.”

  Ellias followed his gaze and saw the small bird perched on a gnarled branch. Its feathers shimmered with hues of blue and black, its delicate form almost too still.

  “They are rare this time of year,” Fletcher murmured. “This one must have been left behind by its flock.”

  Ellias glanced at him, expecting further explanation. But the old man simply stood there, watching the bird with a distant expression.

  “It is ironic indeed,” Fletcher muttered under his breath.

  “Sir?” Ellias prompted.

  Elder Fletcher did not answer immediately. But when he did, his voice was quieter, as though speaking more to himself than to Ellias.

  “Well, carrying on.”

  Then, without another word, he resumed walking, and Ellias had no choice but to follow.

  The elder stopped walking when they reached the village’s bridge. The village had just one bridge—a simple stone structure arching over a churning river. Rowdy teenagers often dared one another to leap into the icy waters below, testing their courage against the swift current.

  “Have you made your mind up, youngling?” The elder’s voice was almost playful, though Ellias couldn’t quite tell if it was genuine.

  “For what, Elder Fletchley?” Ellias asked, unable to keep the edge of irritation from his voice.

  “Fletcher,” the elder huffed, in mock annoyance.

  “I’m sorry, Elder.” Ellias’ apology was half-hearted. The eccentricity of the man before him was beginning to wear on his nerves, and he couldn’t help but feel the sharp edge of frustration creeping into his tone.

  “Yes, yes, you are forgiven.” The elder smirked behind his grey and thinning beard. His eyes twinkled mischievously, as if enjoying the discomfort he was causing.

  “Have I made my mind up for what, Elder?” Ellias pressed again, unwilling to let the matter drop.

  The elder turned toward him, his ancient eyes clouded but sharp. “Of course, it is whether to go or stay, child.”

  Ellias frowned, confused. “What do you mean, Elder?”

  The elder waved a hand grandly, as if attempting to summon a moment of deep revelation. “Just like the river beneath us, you stand at a crossroads. Well, the river’s not really at a crossroads, is it? It just flows, doesn’t it? Calling it a crossroads when water bends and finds its way is a bit... inconsistent. Hmm. How about you’re standing at the meeting place between the heavens and the earth?”

  Ellias blinked. “The meeting place...?”

  “Yes, yes.” Fletcher nodded as though he had just imparted some divine wisdom. “When you die, would your soul ascend and go to the heavens? Or would you break off your mortal binds, leaving your body to decompose in the earth? Hmm… this metaphor doesn’t work either.” The elder trailed off, his eyes distant.

  “Elder?” Ellias asked, interrupting the mad ramblings of the old man. He had already tuned out much of the cryptic talk, trying instead to make sense of what he was being asked.

  “Well, no matter,” the elder replied, brushing his words aside as though they held no real meaning. “Now, you must choose, child. Will you stay in this village, clinging to the comfort of the familiar? Or will you board the carriage to the nearest town, where a new path awaits you? The choice is yours to make.”

  Ellias stood frozen for a moment, stupified from the bizarre turns and twists the old man played on him by just talking to him.

  the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders. Stay? Or go? He had always thought of himself as someone who belonged to nowhere so staying or going was not much of a dilemma.

  Was there even a real desicion or was just this old man trying to have fun with him. So far there were no real action taken or even talked about Ellias’s current situation.

  Ellias felt like he was in a fever dream

  “Go?” he asked with a single breath, voice unsure, but the elder heard him, and his lips twitched in a knowing smile.

  “Well of course, here take this letter and give it to the Madame… what was her name? She works at the admissions so you can just hand the letter to anybody at the admissions”

  “Dont forget, Huxley Academy for People’s Development of Mana and Its Uses, admission department.” As he put a neat little envelope in his hands.

  Elder Fletcher looked at the sun and hummed.

  “If I were you I would take the Cutter's carriage, I would have about 15 minutes to prepare and board the carriage. And maybe I would even take some books to read on the ride.”

  Elder Fletcher said, then turned around and crossed the bridge; as if nothing had happend, leaving a confused Ellias behind him.

  Ellias looked at the elder's back, and the envelope. The envelope had small butterflies drawn on the right top corner.

  He took another look to the town, then one last look to the elders walking back.

  Then he started running.