Vile Magic...

[WP] "Academy Magic" is generally regarded as safe magic. "Fell Magic" is dangerous and can almost only be used for evil. "Vile Magic," meanwhile, is 'safe' but is also the magical equivalent of "don't google that, if you don't already know then you really don't want to know, I promise"

****#

The sundial's shadow twists slowly about the room despite a poignant lack of windows. The small, pulsing orbs dotting beeswax candles are the only visible source of light, though they aren't real either. An invisible presence blusters between lines of desks, leaving a chill in the room uncomfortable enough to encourage students not to peek beyond their privacy shutters. Papers are indeed safe here, if nothing else is.

It's magic. It all is. Even the building we sit in was raised with magic. The shadow, the light, and the shutters are all illusions. Nothing here matters aside from the very real, sticky black ink we use to mark the paper. All marks but those made with conviction falter, bleed, and then dissipate. That is the difficulty in this test. Only confidence presents an answer, so there is no guessing permitted.

Six out of every nine students fail each year. Whether it can be called luck or effort, I seem to be among the three. Every answer I record burns into the pages, the wisping smoke of magic signaling my results before they come to pass. Every answer, but one.

It is an odd question, phrased in such a way that, at first, seems simple. Then, it becomes puzzling, complex. I make many marks, all with hesitation, and so they fade. It is irritating. I had wished for a complete test, one riddled with answers for every askance. Still, it is only one question. Only one that I cannot answer with conviction. I do not hesitate any longer as I pass it by. "What is the true cost of vile magic?" mocks me no more with a single flip of the page.

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I got the top score in my year, and the question I left unanswered never haunted me again until today, the day I will fully commit to the Academy's ranks as one of their own. We call it Ascension. Outsiders call it the Choice. As pedantic a title it may be, they are correct. As the day grows long and the stars begin the blink, every qualified sorcerer must choose. What will they become? What area will they pursue? What other choices must be abandoned to stay on this path? It is the single most important ceremony in a magic-user's life...according to the Academy, at least.

I have never been an overachiever on purpose. I simply have the overwhelming, obsessive need to know as much as I possibly can. And so, walking through the lower, less inhabited part of town on a day like this is not really so odd. I only wish to identify all my options before committing my entire lifespan to one expertise alone. So, yes, the Academy tells us that tonight is our life-changing event. I find this to be true, but it was not because of the ceremony. My life changes with the opening of intricately red-stained glass doors.

Upon entering, I see a cluttered shop otherwise devoid of spectacle. No customers browse the strange array of junk. No keeper calls out welcome when a pitched, eerie ringing reverberates against creaking shelves and tattered walls. I am not deterred. I have never required invitation to delve into the unknown. I ignore the shiver that crawls over my spine when the doors latch themselves shut.

Glistening bobbles and rough gadgets splay across many surfaces. There are some objects that very obviously contain magic essence, weak as it may be, and others are only vessels lacking catalyst. I'm not particularly impressed until I see a glimpse of movement beyond a set of dark, hanging curtains. I push forward, drawn by the teasing display.

The curtains are loosely fastened together with thick tasseled rope, golden in color. Heat radiates off the fibers, but I murmur a quick spell, and the rope shudders before losing its luster. Pulling the now unenchanted cords, the path forward opens to me.

The breath catches in my throat, quiet yet lingering in the emptiness of the shop. I feel possessed, all thoughts focused on the palpitating visage before me. My feet carry me towards it with none of my own volition. And then I stop.

It is at this moment, standing still before a rustic podium, that I recall the question from long ago. Hesitation grips me, as it did back then, and the familiar irritation swells in my chest until I am utterly disgusted by it. I lift my chin, steel myself, and reach out a confident hand.

It is warm, fluttering like a deformed bird. Every other word to describe this feeling falls short. Any description more befitting is beyond comprehension. The slick, burning sensation against my palm is unlike any I could have even dreamed.

Sick fascination overcomes me, and the hand that rested over the object now twists to hold it in a firm grip. It responds with quicker movement, as if trying to escape or fight me, like whatever it is wants to scream. Power inflates my chest, straightens my posture, and I squeeze. A shock jolts through me, causing my eyes to widen in excitement, an unspoken secret seen only by my eyes, heard only through my ears. I unconsciously bare my teeth.

"I trust you are finding all you came looking for?"

The voice surprises me. Feelings of knowing slip from my grasp, and I feel as if I have been emptied. The still-beating heart falls from my fingers, landing with a grotesque splatter of blood upon the floor. At first, I have no response. Millions of words wrap my head, some spells, some questions. All I am left with, once the storm is over, is the split of a smile across my lips.

"Not yet. But I plan to."

A ceremony, huh? A life locked away in a tower, bending to the whims of ancient, outdated men. A life limited by the scope they allow, a life with unanswered questions... What a steep price indeed. I deem it more than affordable.

*****

THE END

Back to my usual stoic pieces. I know that I wrote in a philosophical manner at times, and most times I hate it, but then that's just me. I think, and think, and overthink, and just get bored of thinking, and then I begin to think about why I think so much.

That's a lot of thinking.

Either way, writing has always been a perfect war to air those opinions and thoughts bothering without any stress involved.

Hmm, let me rephrase that, because most times I write fiction. It's not always necessarily talking about things happening in my life, since I haven't ranted like this in months, but just anything I write about.

It's expression. It's letting my ideas flow, from my head to this keyboard, to this app.

Anyone else feeling this way? Can't be just me!