I wake up to a ringing in my ears. Slowly, my eyes open. I’m on the ground. I cough. Dust and smoke, in my lungs. I’m disoriented, my head, it might just burst. My vision blurs, the room spins. I vomit. I blink again. Fuzzily, I can see the space ahead. I think, I think there’s a huge gaping hole where the wall used to be. The wood. Charred. It’s still smoldering. Fire. Footsteps. I can hear footsteps. Yelling. Men yelling.

“Get Charles! Go! Samuel? Samuel! Samuel, look at me! Can you hear me?”

My eyes roll around. It’s hard to focus. But I think I see my father. Yes, his short cropped black hair, his weathered tan face. Blue eyes clear as the sky. Sharp, stern cheeks. People say we look nothing alike, that I more resemble my mother, and… What am I talking about again? Ow, my head.

“Samuel, are you okay? Samuel!”

My father’s calling me. I feel him picking my small body up into his arms. His face, I’ve never seen that expression on it before… I should say something… Move lips, I command thee.

“Da-” My mouth feels dry. Something’s stuck in my throat. I force it through. “D-Daddy?”

Another rush of footsteps. Someone is yelling. “Mayor Becker! What happened?! I heard the explosion! Are we under attack?!”

“Charles, good, you’re here,” my father says, strain in his voice, “George is investigating. Charles, I need you to put out the fire.”

“Understood. I’ll cast ‘Create Water’ right away!”

Oh, he’s using a spell. I want to watch. I want to…

“Samuel? Samuel, stay with me! Samuel-!”

Ah, no good. My eyelids feel like lead. I’m...

****

There’s sand in my mouth. Well, that makes sense. I’m lying face down in the sand. Why am I lying face down in the sand again?

I push myself off the ground and onto my knees, using my gloved hands to brush my face clear of debris. I squint against the hot sun, my cracked visor providing little shade. And that’s when I spot it, the smoldering wreckage of our vehicle. About twenty feet away. Thick black smoke rises, choking the air. One of the tires, left back, is still rotating, like the twitch of an animal gone belly up.

My gray eyes open wide as I remember. The patrol. An IED. And then-

“Harrison! Matthews! Connolly! Captain!” I yell as I sprint towards the mangled mass of metal. And that’s when I spot them. The bodies. Charred and broken. Army uniforms in tatters. The smell of flesh cooking in the air, shrapnel and blood painting their skin. Their positions, crawling, indicate an attempt to escape the once burning car. They failed.

I turn my head away, about to vomit. But then I hear something that causes my blood to curdle. It’s faint as a whisper; it’s coming from inside the car. I duck my head and peer through the shattered window. There, I spot the contorted body of my unit mate, Connolly, the partial lettering on his jacket providing me the name, for his face is burned beyond recognition, fat literally melting off his body. One of his eyes has fallen out of its socket, suspended by the optic nerve. His other rolls lazily towards me, as if pulled by something otherworldly.

“Taaazzzuuuthhhh,” he gasps, blood wetting his words, “Hooowwww? Whhhyyy youuuu?” I see him raising his arm. His hand sloshes right off, leaving a putrid stump behind, white bone exposed.

“Why are you the only one that survived?”

From the amputated limb, something squirts out at me, getting into my mouth. It’s sour when I swallow. I begin to choke. I can’t breathe. I lift up my hands. They’re starting to melt. The flesh dissolving away. I’m...

****

I sit up with a start, sweat dripping down my face. I’m panting, my shirt sticky, my gray eyes wide and dilated. It takes me a second before I realize I’m on a bed. It’s not mine; the room is unfamiliar. I raise my hands. To my relief, they’re still there, the small and chubby fingers of my reincarnated five-year-old body. I sigh, and that’s when I realize I’m being watched. I turn my head and find that it’s my mother. She’s sitting, legs crossed, hands folded across her lap, on the far side of the room. When she spots me stirring, she makes eye contact, her blue orbs meeting with mine. She smiles, plump red lips curling upwards, and she stands, making her way towards me. She stops besides the bed, then reaches out a hand, and begins to smooth out my mop of bed hair. “There,” she says.

“Mommy, I messed up, I-”

The sudden opening of the door interrupts me. Through it enters three men. One is my father. He’s wearing a stern expression, his brows furrowed, his eyes dark. I recognize another as Charles, my father’s right hand man. He is the mage my father had called upon to extinguish the fire. He is dressed in a black wizard’s robe. The third I don’t remember ever having seen before, a bearded man with braided black hair dressed in leather. In his hands, he holds a book. I recognize it as the magic tome from my father’s study.

My father sidesteps my mother, without a word, and comes up to me. “How are you, Samuel?” he asks gruffly.

“I’m okay, Daddy, I-” His harsh gaze brings me pause. I look away, down at the white sheets covering my legs.

When my father realizes I don’t plan to continue, he does so in my stead. His voice is monotonous and cold, like reciting from a textbook, as he says, “Father Tucker told me you had a dislocated hip, three broken ribs and a concussion. He cast ‘Healing Word’ on you, so there shouldn’t be any life threatening injuries. Still, he told me to tell you to take it slow. That being said, let me or your mother know if anything feels out of place. Understand, Samuel?”

I nod, eyes still downcast, and I fidget in place. “Is, is everyone okay? Was anyone hurt?” I ask softly.

My contrite tone seems to draw my father’s ire rather than soothe it. “Everyone’s fine. No thanks to you,” he snaps, “Some scrapes and bruises, casualties of the panic you caused the town. Along with several roofs that are in need of repair. Fortunately, the damage was contained in time. You have Charles here to thank for that.” He takes a breath, as if to reload his anger. Then, he comes at me in full force. “Honestly, what the hell were you thinking?! Casting a dangerous spell like that indoors?! Have you no common sense?! Are you so selfish as to not consider at all those that might be affected by your actions?! Are you-?!”

“Mayor Becker, Thomas,” a voice intervenes, and while you might think it’s my mother, coming to my defense, it’s actually Charles, my father’s deputy. He places a hand on my father’s shoulder, holding him back. “Thomas, he’s still just a boy. ‘Your’ boy. Go easy on him. A child doesn’t know better.”

“MY CHILD would know better!” my father roars, pointing a finger at me, “‘He’ knows better! He knows right from wrong! I’ve taught him as much!” Then turning to me, he says, “It’s those stories, isn’t it?! Those fantasies that mother of yours fills your head with. SHE’s the reason-!”

I jump up, my hands balling into tiny fists. Standing atop the bed, I am able to meet my father at equal level, my gray eyes glaring into his blue ones. “Blame me all. But leave Mommy alone,” I growl, “She not at fault. It’s my fault. You right, Daddy. I don’t think practice spell do so much danger. I don’t think. I was hasty. I selfish. It was my fault.”

My father’s face loses some of its edge, but he doesn’t relent his anger. I don’t back down either, and it is only the sound of Charles’ voice that forces us all to take a step back. He interjects, “Sammy, hold on. Did you just say you casted a ‘practice’ spell?”

I hold my defiance a moment longer, then finally turn away from my father. Calming myself, I nod my head. “The spell says practice for beginner. That why I try.”

I see a contemplative expression cross Charles' face. My father notices as well. “What is it?” he asks.

“George, can you hand me the tome?” Charles says. The bearded man with the braided hair steps forward, offering up the book. Charles takes it, flips to a certain page, then turns it around for me to see. “The spell you casted, Sammy, it was this one, was it not?” he asks, tapping a finger to the top of the page.

I look at where he’s indicating, reading what’s inscribed. “Fi-er. Bow-ta. Fire. Bolt. Fire bolt.” And while it takes me several attempts, I do manage to make out most of the description.

---

Fire bolt: this spell shoots out a ball of fire, up to a hundred feet from the caster, strong enough to potentially incinerate and kill an average person twice over.

---

I vehemently shake my head. “No way I cast this indoors. Too danger. I would never.”

Charles raises his eyebrow, then turns to George. “You said that your investigation showed this spell was the cause of the explosion, right?”

“That is correct, Master Charles,” George replies, “It was a fire-type evocation spell. My best guess is, ‘Fire Bolt’.”

“The one on this page?” Charles asks, and when he sees George nod, he turns to me, “And you’re sure this is not the spell you casted, Sammy?”

Again, I shake my head. “Transmutation.” I gesture for the book, flipping the pages back until I find the one I recognize. “This one. Prestidigitation. See? Practice. Beginner,” I say, pointing out the runic lettering on the page.

“But that’s literally impossible,” Charles mumbles, “I’m rather familiar with this spell, as all wizards are. So I know this spell has no destructive power. That’s why it’s meant as a practice spell. There’s no way it could have caused the damage in the study. George, back me up here.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“Sammy, are you positive this is the one you casted?” Charles asks again, and again, I nod. Then I see the man step to the wall, pull away a candle, and snuff it out with a pinch of his fingers. He returns to me, arm extended, candle in his fist. With his other hand, he begins the gestures, chanting the invocations all the while. I recognize the motions and words; they are the same as the ones I used in the study. In short order, he finishes and activates the spell, “Prestidigitation.”

On reflex, I shy away, fearing another explosion. Instead, all that happens is the candle merely flickers to life with a small orangish flame.

“The spell you cast?” Charles asks, holding the candle to me.

For the third time in so many minutes, I nod.

“Are you-?” Charles begins to ask yet again, but before his fourth, my father interrupts.

“Charles, enough. That’s enough,” he says, sounding weary. When I turn to look, I see a troubled expression across his face, like he’s seen a ghost, and when he sees me looking, he tries to hide it with a forced smile. He walks over to me, raising his hand. He places it on my head, tousling my hair. The motion is awkward, cold, and uncomfortable. “Rest for now, Samuel. We’ll go see Father Tucker in the morning to get this straightened out.”

“But Mayor Becker-”

“I said we’re done here, Charles.”

With that, my father turns to leave. Charles and George follow, both offering a respectful bow to my mother as they pass. Then the door creaks shut, leaving me wondering just what exactly I had done.