Knowledge comes at a price

The warm glow of candles cast long shadows across the dining table as the Weyland family shared their evening meal. Anton pushed his stew around his bowl, his mind far from the tender chunks of mutton and root vegetables of the stew that his mother had prepared. The conversation around him—his father's account of the day's work, his sister's questions about flowers and forest —faded to a distant murmur as he contemplated how to best harness his extraordinary ability.

Perhaps archery? The militia maintained a training ground where civilians could practice alongside guards during designated hours. With enough repetition, he could become not merely competent but exceptional. Yet his body betrayed him in this ambition. He recalled his attempt to draw a guard's longbow, the way his arms had trembled under the strain, barely able to maintain full draw for even a moment. The weapons of Kirkvalor were designed for a specific purpose—to defend against the beasts inhabiting Malor Forest. Longbows required tremendous upper body strength to drive arrows through thick hides. Halberds and pikes needed powerful strikes to pierce tough skin. More than that only his memories and experience carried over across his death, not his physical attributes.

No, he required a different path—one that valued knowledge and experience over physical prowess.

"Father, Mother," Anton said suddenly, his voice cutting through the comfortable family chatter. "I want to train to be a mage."

The words hung in the air like smoke. His father Thonar froze with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. His mother Orla's spoon clattered against her bowl. Even Muri, his sister, stared at him with wide eyes, all pretense of disinterest abandoned.

Thonar set down his bread carefully, as though handling something fragile. "How did you come by this idea so suddenly? You've never shown interest in such pursuits before." His father's weathered face creased with concern. "You've always avoided danger when possible. Declined to join me on hunts because you couldn't bear to kill animals. Now you speak of becoming a mage? What's happened, son?"

Anton met his father's gaze. "Father, Mother—I came very close to dying today."

"What?!" The collective cry from his family members echoed off the timber walls of their modest home.

Orla reached across the table, her calloused fingers finding Anton's hand. "Tell us what happened. Whatever troubles you, we can face it together." Her eyes, the same warm brown as Anton's own, searched his face with motherly concern.

"It's just that..." Anton chose his words carefully, unable to reveal his true ability yet unwilling to invent a complete falsehood. "Even when I'm living peacefully, tending the sheep as I've always done, death can find me. Today made me realize how powerless I am against the dangers of this world."

Anton held up a hand, interrupting his father's practical suggestions about rune papers. "It's more than that," he said, his voice tight with remembered fear. "This afternoon, a group of adventurers lured a wave of beasts near our pasture. They were trying to draw the creatures away from the trees for easier time hunting."

He exhaled slowly, drawing upon the vivid memory of his second death—an experience that, to his family, had never occurred. "A tiger ran straight for me. All I could do was flee, desperately hoping those damned adventurers would notice and save me." His fingers curled into fists on the weathered tabletop. "I don't want to feel that kind of powerlessness ever again."

The revelation sent a ripple of shock around the table. Orla rose immediately from her seat, crossing to Anton's side. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, one hand moving to stroke his hair as she had when he was a child.

"Oh, my poor boy," she murmured, her voice quavering. "Thank the goddess you're still in one piece." Her embrace tightened momentarily, as if confirming his physical presence.

Thonar's weathered face darkened with concern. He stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyes distant as he considered his son's words. After a long moment, he spoke.

"But don't you think becoming a mage is rather extreme as an immediate solution?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What about training at the militia grounds first? You could become a competent archer or crossbowman. When you've developed sufficient skill, I could even ask Dorn to craft a hand crossbow for you."

His father's voice took on an encouraging tone when discussing archery, but shifted to something sterner as he continued, "And unless you possess innate magical talent—which no one in our family has shown for generations—the tuition fees at the Mages Guild will be exorbitant. Five gold coins. We might even have to sell most of our sheeps."

Hope flared in Anton's chest. His father wasn't dismissing the idea outright. Anton could see his parents communicating without words, a silent language developed through decades of partnership.

Orla returned to her seat, but her eyes never left Anton's face. No mother would willingly encourage her son toward a life of danger and combat—toward a life spent confronting threats and walking the precipice between safety and death. The worry etched into the fine lines around her eyes spoke volumes.

Finally, Thonar exhaled through his nose, his expression shifting to reluctant acceptance. "If you can find a way to handle the fees, and if you keep helping with the family business, then… fine. You can try."

Orla sighed, shaking her head, but she placed a gentle hand on Anton's arm. "Promise me you'll be careful," she said softly. "Magic or not, I don't want to lose my son."

"Don't worry about tuition, Father," Anton said with quiet confidence. "I have an idea."

"An idea?" Thonar's eyebrows rose. "Unless you've discovered a hidden treasure beneath our pastures, I doubt any idea will cover what the College demands."

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Next evening, Anton found himself standing before the imposing entrance of the Mages Guild. The ornate building loomed against the twilight sky, its windows aglow with various colors of light that both beckoned and warned its visitors. Taking a deep breath to fortify his resolve, Anton pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped into the hallowed halls.

"Welcome," came a voice that seemed to dance upon the air. The young woman behind the reception desk raised her eyes to meet his—warm amber irises that hinted at hidden depths of knowledge despite her youthful appearance. Perhaps only a few years his senior, her poise suggested she had been a receptionist at the guild for a while.

"Welcome to the Mages Guild. How may I assist you today? Do you wish to issue a commission?" Her smile was practiced yet genuine, her hands folded neatly upon the polished surface of her desk.

Anton approached the desk, his heart thundering against his ribs. "I wish to be trained as a mage," he declared, his voice steadier than he had expected.

The woman's smile faltered, giving way to a carefully neutral expression. "I see. In that matter, I must summon a senior mage. Please wait a moment." With a graceful movement, she rose and disappeared through a door behind her station.

Left alone, Anton lowered himself onto one of the cushioned chairs that lined the reception area. He attempted to calm his nerves, focusing instead on his surroundings. The guild's entrance hall was a testament to power and affluence—walls adorned with masterful paintings depicting scenes of legendary feats of mages, delicate vases of clearly mysterious origin displayed on pedestals of carved marble, and enchanted crystals that emitted a soft, pulsating glow.

Among these displays of opulence, one demanded attention above all others: mounted on the central wall, the severed head of a magnificent beast—a lion with a mane of pure silver and eyes of infernal crimson. Even in death, the creature's visage bore an unmistakable ferocity, a primal rage that transcended mortality. Anton found himself unable to look away, drawn into those fiery depths as though the beast might yet spring forth from the wall and devour him whole.

"I see our trophy has got you dazed. It happens to most first-time visitors," came a rich, booming voice, breaking the daze effect that had ensnared him.

The sound of the opening door had barely registered in Anton's consciousness. He turned to find a middle-aged man standing in the doorway, his lips curved in amusement. Unlike Anton's father Thonar, whose skin was weathered by decades from working beneath the sun, this man possessed the unmarred complexion of one who spent his days in comfort. Yet there was a sharpness to his eyes—a keen, penetrating quality that spoke of battles and victories. His hazel hair was gathered in a loose ponytail, a style favored by nobility.

Anton rose quickly and offered a respectful bow. "Yes, sir."

A chuckle escaped the mage's lips. "Well, at least the boy has manners. If you wish the honor of learning my name, you must first demonstrate some aptitude to be a mage. Here—hold this orb and remain perfectly still." He took out a spherical object that resembled polished silver from within the folds of his robe.

Anton accepted the orb with careful hands, standing motionless as instructed. The mage casted a spell by tracing complex patterns in the air. The orb responded to his incantation, illuminating from within as symbols, unknown to Anton, manifested in its depths, swirling and rearranging themselves like living constellations.

The mage's eyes narrowed as he interpreted these mystical signs. After a moment, his expression softened slightly.

"Not bad at all," he pronounced. "With diligence and proper instruction, we could shape you into a decent mage." He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "But your potential, while decent, is not sufficient to warrant free tuition. You understand that education requires payment—either in gold or items of equivalent value. Which shall it be?"

Without hesitation, Anton replied, "I shall pay with items of value." From his satchel, he withdrew five weathered bottles containing a mysterious liquid. He extended them toward the mage.