First comes formality and celebration

"Come over here," called the receptionist, her voice cutting through Anton's moment of celebration in his mind. "Do you know how to read?"

Anton blinked, pulled abruptly from his mental celebration back to the guildhall's reality. Maria had returned to her desk and was now regarding him with professional efficiency, quill already in hand.

"Yes, I know how to read," he replied, approaching her station where several documents lay unfurled.

She nodded, seemingly neither impressed nor disappointed. "And writing? Can you sign your name properly?" She dipped her quill in a small crystal inkwell. "If not, a fingerprint marked beneath the signature line would suffice."

Anton felt heat rise to his cheeks. His mother had insisted on teaching him how to read letters, spending precious evening hours by candlelight showing him how to form his name and read basic texts. Writing, however, was another matter. He could trace letters in sand or dirt with a stick well enough, but wielding quill and ink on expensive parchment remained a rare luxury for the Weyland household.

"Don't look down on me," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I know how to sign my own name."

A subtle smile crossed Maria's face—not quite mockery, but something adjacent to amusement. "Very well then. Here—" she slid a document toward him. "Read through this apprenticeship contract and sign at the bottom. By the way," her tone softened slightly, "my name is Maria. Maria Lowell. Like you, I'm also a magical apprentice here, though a senior one."

The revelation surprised him. He had assumed her role was purely administrative.

"Pleased to meet you, Maria. I'm Anton Weyland," he replied, extending his hand in the farmer's way before realizing guild customs might differ. He quickly withdrew it and added, "My family maintains a dairy and sheep farm just outside the city. Should you ever need milk or wool, mention my name. We offer substantial discounts to fellow apprentices."

Maria's eyebrows lifted slightly at his impromptu sales pitch, but she acknowledged and approved his gesture with a small nod. "I'll remember that. Fresh milk is always welcome."

Anton bent over the contract, squinting slightly in concentration as he read. The terms were less restrictive than he'd anticipated—standard provisions about not using magic to violate city rules, pledging support for defensive efforts if the city faced threats, and various liability waivers. Curiously, there seemed no prohibition against sharing knowledge gained within the guild's walls.

When he reached for the quill, his fingers felt clumsy and oversized. He dipped it with excessive care, terrified of creating an unseemly blot. Holding his breath, he signed his name with deliberate strokes, focusing intently on maintaining the proper angle and pressure. The result was somewhat rigid but legible.

Maria collected the document, blowing gently on the ink to hasten its drying before rolling it precisely and sealing it with a dot of red wax. She then produced a new sheet of parchment and opened a small leather-bound book beside it.

"Master Blackwood will begin your sessions at four in the afternoon," she explained, consulting her diary. Her finger traced across various notations. "You should arrive no less than ten minutes early. Punctuality itself is an important virtue."

She gestured toward a pendulum clock behind her. Anton's shoulders slumped. "I don't own a timepiece, Miss Lowell. My family's farm lies beyond the fortress walls, too distant to hear the temple bells."

Maria's expression shifted as she considered Anton's predicament. For a moment, something resembling sympathy flickered across her features before being replaced by professional detachment.

"Well," she said with finality, "that's your problem to solve. Ensure you never keep Master Blackwood waiting. As a Great Mage, his time is exceptionally valuable. Know that punctuality itself is an important virtue around here" She straightened a stack of papers with practiced precision. "You're fortunate to have caught him while he's actually present at the guild. Most days, he's completely immersed in his research at his private research room. Some apprentices go weeks without seeing him."

Anton felt a sharp retort forming on his tongue—something about not underestimating a farmer's son—but he swallowed it back. Antagonizing his senior apprentice even before his first lesson would be foolish. Instead, he offered a simple, "Yes, I understand," though the words tasted bland in his mouth.

Maria raised her hand, index finger extended upward. With a casual flick of her wrist and a whispered word too soft for Anton to catch, the ink from the container leapt into the air. The glistening black droplets danced momentarily before landing on the parchment in perfect, flowing script. The letters formed themselves into words, detailing when he should arrive, appropriate attire, and various other instructions.

Anton couldn't help but stare, mouth slightly agape at the casual display of magical prowess. Such control over a mundane substance—making it defy natural law at her mere command—was precisely what he'd dreamed of mastering.

Maria caught his expression and a small, knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Don't look so awestruck. You'll learn this after basic mana control training," she said, her tone softening slightly. "It's not nearly as impressive as it seems at first—just a simple application of magical energy. Apprentices usually master it by their third month."

"How long did it take you?" Anton asked, genuinely curious.

Maria's smile widened slightly. "Three weeks," she replied without a hint of modesty. "But I had certain advantages growing up in a merchant house with private tutors in literature and poetry." She pushed the finished note toward him. "Not everyone progresses at the same pace. You know what they say talent matters less than persistence."

Anton took the note, feeling the residual warmth of recently applied magic. "Thank you for the advice, Senior Apprentice Lowell."

"Maria," she corrected him, surprising herself with the informality. "We're both apprentices, after all."

"Maria," Anton repeated with a nod. "Perhaps I'll see you again tomorrow?"

"Perhaps," she agreed, her attention already returning to her ledger. "The guild is full of surprises."

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The Weyland farmhouse was buzzing with unusual excitement that evening. The worn oak table, normally set with simple fare, now boasted a small feast—freshly baked bread, a wheel of cheese, spring vegetables from the garden, and a roasted chicken reserved for special occasions.

Thonar Weyland raised his cup, filled with watered cider rather than his special whiskey. "To my son, the mage apprentice," he proclaimed, pride evident in his weathered face. "First in the family since my great-grandfather's time."

"And to my husband," Orla added, her gentle eyes crinkling at the corners, "whose 'hobby' might bring fortune to our doorstep." She squeezed Thonar's calloused hand across the table. "Always knew there was magic in those hands of yours."

Thonar's cheeks flushed with rare embarrassment. "Still can't believe it myself. Been brewing that whiskey the same way for years. Never thought it had anything special about it beyond good taste."

"Enhanced vitality," Anton repeated the mage's words, savoring the phrase. "Father, have you never noticed feeling unusually refreshed after sampling your own brew?"

Thonar shrugged massive shoulders. "Just figured it was good whiskey. Makes a man feel good—that's what it's supposed to do."

"But not that good," Anton insisted. "Not in a way that defies the natural properties of spirits."

Muri bounced impatiently in her seat. Her dark curls—so like their mother's—swung with each movement. "Enough about whiskey! When will you learn to shoot lightning from your fingers? Can you make my dolls dance? Will you learn to fly?" Her eyes shone with childish wonder.

Anton laughed, ruffling her hair. "Slow down, little fox. I haven't even had my first lesson yet. Magic isn't like picking up a new farm tool—it takes years to master."

"But you'll show me when you learn something good?" she pressed, undeterred.

"Muri," Orla chided gently, "your brother will have strict rules about using his magic."

"I promise to show you anything I can," Anton assured her. "But I need to learn first."

He turned to his parents, expression growing serious. "I'll need to return earlier from shepherding on training days. Can't risk keeping Master Blackwood waiting."

His parents nodded with a look of pride in their eyes. Anton felt his throat tighten with appreciation for his family's support. "Thank you. All of you."

Thonar leaned forward, lowering his voice though there was no one to overhear. "About the whiskey—I'll show you the special spot in the forest where I harvest the soil and the rare mushrooms I use to fertilize that particular crop of wheat. Been my secret all these years."

"You never told anyone?" Anton asked, surprised.

Thonar's weather-beaten face crinkled in a smile. "Never thought it mattered until now. It's just a clearing, I found it by accident when hunting many years ago."

The family continued their celebration well into the night, talking and laughing by candlelight as the stars wheeled overhead and the future—suddenly much brighter and stranger than any of them had imagined—waited just beyond the horizon.

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The following afternoon found Anton standing before the Mages Guild once more. He had risen before dawn to tend his flocks, worked at double speed to complete his chores, rushed home to wash and change into his cleanest shirt and trousers, and nearly ran the entire way to the city gates.

Now, catching his breath at the threshold of the imposing building, he felt a curious mixture of trepidation and exhilaration. Beyond these doors lay knowledge that would forever change him—and perhaps, by extension, the fortunes of his entire family.

He straightened his shoulders, and pushed open the heavy doors to begin his very first lesson.