Toren Reinbahm crouched behind the minor illusion of a cabinet, blending into the wall behind him, trying to keep his breathing quiet as three students from the school of Enchantment barged into the room. “Spread out,” Neil, the leader of the three said as they entered. “Touch everything, little bastard’s probably hiding behind the illusion of a curtain or something.”

It took a special kind of bastard to have an aptitude for the school of Enchantment. The only school more universally disdained was Illusion. At least with illusions, though, the wizard isn’t making your decisions for you, the illusionists said.

Neil Brann was a paragon of what the Enchantment school stood for. A year younger than Toren at fifteen, he was widely renowned as a prodigy. He was handsome, talented, and most importantly, willing to use his magic to influence the minds of the weak willed mercilessly.

It didn’t speak well of Toren then, that he had astonishing aptitude for both Enchantment and Illusion, the two most reprehensible schools of the academy of Wizardry, earning nicknames such as ‘That Fucking Kid, Slippery Sonovabitch, Lying Bastard, and Cheating Fuckwit.’ Toren took those slurs as a badge of pride. His perfect test scores in Enchantment were only higher than Neil because he had bribed the proctors to lower Neil’s score, a liberal application of some of the more mundane techniques taught in the School of Illusion.

Because of that, Neil had set his sights on Toren, plaguing him constantly. Toren had responded in kind by summoning minor illusions of spiders whenever the two crossed paths, creating a learned wariness of Toren by associating himself with his enemy’s greatest fear, a separate application of The School of Enchantment’s mundane techniques.

This particular incident may have been because of Neil’s older sister, who had, completely on her own, taken a liking to Toren, resolving to try her hand at seducing the most talented wizard apprentice in the academy. Well, that’s how she rationalized it, Toren admitted to himself.

It might also be because Toren had stolen the Grimoire given to Neil by his mentor and slipped its cover on an arachnology book. Toren tilted his head. It could also be…

“Toren, I’m going to kill you and stuff your body through a portal to the Abyss after I torture where you put the Professor’s staff out of you! I know you fucking did it!” Neil shouted, running his hands along the wall and furniture.

Yeah, that was the other one, at least that Neil knew about. Neil bore the bruises of a damn good beating after Toren had framed him for the crime. He shrugged to himself. If Neil hadn’t started it, Toren wouldn’t have to respond in kind. Toren pointed his finger, and a soft scrape emanated from the other side of the room, and the three whipped their heads around to look.

Toren silently padded out of the room, just as comprehension dawned on Neil’s face. He turned to look at the door even as his friends moved toward the vase in the corner of the room. “It’s a trick!” Neil shouted, and Toren winked at the furious face disappearing behind the closing doors.

“Struggle all you want,” Toren shouted, lacing his words with the power of suggestion “I’ve barred the door, you guys are gonna be in there awhile.” Then Toren turned and ran like hell. Angry shouting came from the door behind him, mostly a discussion on how they would manage to break down the door.

Naturally, Toren hadn’t barred the door, he just made them believe it wholeheartedly, and they would spend a few minutes devising a method appropriate to break it down while Toren gained some distance. Toren sprinted down the quiet marble halls of the academy, his robe catching the wind as twin streamers of red and purple marking his two schools flowed behind him.

Toren flew through the empty corridor, pushing against marble pillars as he turned the corner, spotting a cat down the hall. Giles Ennerson, the aged master of the school of illusion probably stood before him, dominating the center of the hall. Toren couldn’t have picked out any one thing that told him that the cat that groomed itself in front of him was his teacher, but his instincts screamed at him to dodge.

Toren juked to the cat’s left and slid, hoping to fly under the invisible grasp of the shifty old man. Toren slid across the marble, half expecting an iron grip to snag his collar and bring him to a halt. The cat glanced at him unconcernedly as he passed, and winked, its slit eyes filled with mirth. The air in front of Toren shimmered, and he found himself sliding to a stop at the feet of his professor.

Toren put an elbow under himself and adopted a relaxed countenance, reclining on the floor in front of the master wizard. “Morning, sir.”

Giles chuckled, leaning closer, until Toren could smell the old man’s perfume. “I see you’ve taken your lessons in confidence to heart, but don’t forget,” Giles said, tapping his head. “Wizards of my level can tell what you’re thinking.”

Toren immediately began to picture being eaten alive. Giles shuddered visibly, and Toren launched himself from the floor, dashing away. Toren turned a few corners, not daring to look behind him. Toren cast minor illusions of himself taking turning each direction, first taking a right, toward the dorms, then around them toward the mess hall.

In the three hundred years since the founding of the Academy, the mess hall had been given the status of Neutral Ground. The tradition had been inherited from year to year, and none respected it more than former alumni, namely the teachers. If Toren could make it there, he could wait for their tempers to fade somewhat before they punished him for whatever he had done. Aside from staff, Toren couldn’t think of any one thing they might want him for.

He hadn’t even stolen the staff, he had simply made the professor misremember its appearance. The damn thing still rested in the professor’s room, and when Neil had pointed that out, the professor had denied it in a fit of pique and had him beat himself. Of course the professor of Enchantment had a tendancy to unconsciously use the power of suggestion in his own voice, and now the entire academy was looking for a redwood staff that didn’t exist.

It would probably be known as the greatest senior prank if Toren lived through it.

Toren turned another corner, the sound of pursuit close behind him, and saw the double doors to the mess hall ahead of him. Toren leaned forward, putting on a burst of speed as he headed for the safety of Neutral Ground. Toren burst through the doors to the mess hall and found himself stumbling into the Headmaster’s Office, the smell of incense replacing the familiar scent of young men and cheap food.

The Headmaster, an old man with a long, carefully manicured white beard, sat behind his ever-shifting desk. The laminated surface of the wood seemed to ripple like water, and the Headmaster’s arms that rested on it bobbed as it rose and fell.

“Where were you headed in such a hurry?” the Headmaster asked innocuously.

Toren glanced at the Master of Illusion, Giles, and the Master of Enchantment, Kyle Frendon sitting on either side of the room. Toren put his hands up in surrender. “The mess hall,” Toren said, “neutral ground.”

“Cafeteria, huh?” the Headmaster said with a grin, gaps visible between his unnaturally white teeth. “Almost made it.” The Headmaster’s smile faded, and he shifted in his seat. “Take a seat, Toren.” Toren complied, sitting between his two teachers, facing the Headmaster.

“You’re in a very precarious position, Toren,” the Headmaster said, his bushy brows furrowed. “You’re the most talented student this academy has had in a long time, and that is the only reason you are still with us. You cause me to take valuable time out of my busy schedule, and neglect the duties of a Headmaster, just to resolve disputes between these two, on a near daily basis.”

“It would be a greater headache if we were to drop you now, so close to your graduation, and have another academy take the credit for such a valuable alumni,” The Headmaster said, tapping a quill against a gently bobbing inkpot on his desk before heaving a sigh. “So you’ll be graduating.”

The Master of Enchantment stood and pointed at Toren “Expell him, Headmaster!” he said. “He stole my redwood staff!” Giles, sitting beside him, casually covered his mouth with his hand, his body shivering with suppressed giggles.

The Headmaster glanced up at the livid master of suggestion, and narrowed his eyes. “Kyle, you’ve been enchanted,” he said, flicking a drop of ink through the air onto Kyle’s forehead. The ink flared with light for an instant, then flaked away from his face like ash. Kyle sat back in his seat, his face pale. “The boy took advantage of your arrogance, Kyle, and you spun a cocoon of enchantments around the minor suggestion he made about your property. Don’t let something like that happen again.”

“Yes Headmaster,” Kyle said, nodding. Toren saw his fingers shaking in his lap, and quickly returned his gaze to the Headmaster, who was studying him carefully.

“You have nothing more of importance to learn here, young man,” the Headmaster said, dipping his quill, and waiting for his desk to bring a fresh sheet of paper to him. The sheet slid across the table, floated by the rippling surface to rest in front of the Headmaster. “The last three months before your graduation are nothing more than a formality, and so I have invented a new tradition for any student who has dual aptitude for Illusion and Enchantment.” The Headmaster began writing on the paper in front of him, and the ripples in the wood stood still as he did so, waiting for him to pen out a missive.

As far as Toren was aware, he was the only student with aptitude for two schools of magic in years, and the first to ever have those two in particular. The new ‘tradition’ was obviously targeting him, but perhaps the Headmaster thought any student in the future who shared Toren’s talent would be similarly troublesome?

“The tradition is such,” the Headmaster spoke, signing his name in long flowing lines at the bottom of the page “You are to be assigned a ‘Senior Project’, to gain valuable real-world experience for the next three months. At the end of that time, your name will be added to the register of officially recognized wizards.” The Headmaster blew gently on the paper to dry the ink. He then passed the order and a pin across the table to Toren. “Your mark, please.”

Toren took the newly written paper and passed his hand over it, checking for illusory script with his mind’s eye. It was probably rude to the Headmaster, but Toren didn’t feel like signing his soul over to be polite. Toren then read the declaration.

“The student of the Royal Academy of Magic; Toren Reinbahm, In recognition of his excellence in academic studies has hereby been given an assignment outside of…” Toren skimmed through the paper, muttering under his breath. The contents of the letter were much as the Headmaster had described, until Toren’s eyes ran over one particular part twice.

“Toren shall not set foot upon the Academy grounds or any other learning institute associated with the Kingdom of Illiestar until he has reached the age of twenty-five, or his register with the Royal order will be revoked?” Toren said aloud, his voice raising. “You’re banishing me?” he said, brandishing the paper in front of the Headmaster.

“I wouldn’t say banishing,” the Headmaster said with a slight wince. “I and other teachers think you need some time to… age.”

“Like a fine wine,” Giles said, resting his chin on a palm.

“I advocated burning the magic right out of your mind and sending you home a simpleton,” Kyle said, staring daggers at Toren. “This compromise doesn’t sit well with me.”

“I’ll be nine years behind my contemporaries when I come back,” Toren said, “I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“I think not, young man,” the Headmaster said, steepling his fingers. “You are already years ahead of your contemporaries. What you need now is the responsibility to handle the powers you possess.

Toren gritted his teeth, biting back a scathing response. The old man in front of him had the power to ban him from legally practicing magic, simply by removing him from the register held at the royal palace. “I understand, Headmaster,” Toren said, clipping his words as he spoke them, struggling to keep his anger from spilling into his tone.

Toren could finish their senior project nonsense and perhaps beg his father for money to go on a journey around the world. The edict specifically stated he couldn’t learn at an institution inside the empire’s borders. If that was the case, Toren could receive training in another country. Nine years was a lot of time. Toren squinted, pricked his thumb with the pin, and smeared a streak of blood across the bottom of the page.

The red streak and the flowing script flared with light, and then began to sink into the ever-shifting wood, receding behind the polished veneer of the Headmaster’s desk. “Thank you, Toren,” the Headmaster said, setting aside the pin. “Now, the matter of your project. A certain young lady is waiting in the lobby, your project is to provide your assistance. She’ll explain the details.” The old man stood, indicating that the meeting was over, shifting through papers on his desk, as if searching for the next task that required his attention.

Kyle and Giles left the room first, and just as Toren was turning to go, he heard the Headmaster’s voice call out to him. “Toren, I understand your enthusiasm to practice something you love, I really do, but you’ll find that other countries will not treat an Illiestarian wizard kindly. Toren stiffly nodded his head, and the Headmaster went back to organizing his tasks.

Toren turned and left the room, finding himself in the opposite wing from the mess hall, standing just outside the Headmaster’s office. A weight settled in his stomach as contemplated the next nine years, an almost inconceivable amount of time to the sixteen year old prodigy. As the third son, his family couldn’t be expected to spend a great deal of its limited resources on him. Toren’s father had been pleased to hear his third son had the gift of magic, and had hoped he might have the ear of the king in a decade or two, when his older brother succeeded the house.

Despite the Headmaster graduating him early, Toren was only at the level of a hedge wizard or junior officer in the military. Not to mention, Toren’s ability in Enchantment and Illusion relegated him to the job of a spy or professional sycophant, and while Toren had talent with intrigue, it wore him down to constantly deceive people. Nine years whispering thoughts into people’s heads and watching his back for daggers would hollow him out, he knew.

The only thing Toren really enjoyed was magic for the fun of it. he saw other boys sitting in class, each holding their aching heads as dry information was crammed into their skulls. Toren on the other hand, felt thrilled to practice even the mundane lessons from his instructors, and discovered that incorporating them into his life indeed made his magic more potent.

Once again though, It boiled down to his overwhelming aptitude for the two most insidious schools of magic. Had Toren been one of the lantern-jawed practitioners of transmutation, or an excitable evocationist, he would not have gotten himself mired so deeply in the Academy’s politics. Instead, he would happily explode dummies in the courtyard until the sun set, ignorant to the backbiting that was rife in the enchantment school, and unburdened by treading the mire of deception of the Illusion wizards.

Transmuters, Evocationists and Abjurers were highly prized in the military, and Necromancers were also sought after, although widely considered shifty. Enchanters had no defined job, although they usually wound up as a spy or an advisor for various noble families. Not necessarily because they were any more wise than another learned man, but because they could make people believe it. Illusionists were pitied as they were unable to make significant changes to the world around them, and financial security was difficult to find for them, as their jobs were as transient as their illusions, usually to make a noble appear to be more wealthy than he was, gilding his house or person for a weekend while his social peers looked on in envy.

The Headmaster was a master of Divination, a rare magic that very few people showed aptitude for, and fewer still mastered. It was said that the old man could tell the future, and his massive personal wealth and spotless private history seemed to back that up.

Toren glanced back at the door to the Headmaster’s office, considering his words. The old man had always seemed to have his student’s best interests at heart. That, combined with the rumor of the Headmaster’s foreknowledge, made Toren set aside his thoughts of leaving the country. Toren squared his shoulders and strode to the lobby where guests and family members were received.

“Do you think I did the right thing?” the Headmaster said to his wife, who had quietly manifested in the corner of the room. He listened to her silent voice for a moment, and his expression soured. “I know, but narrowing fate down to those two outcomes feels incredibly unfair to them.” The old wizard gave a shrug and went back to his documents. “I guess you’re right, I’ve been surprised before.”