Tonight was the Red Moon Festival. The full moon loomed rge in the sky, casting its silver glow over the earth like a frost-covered bnket. Yet, if one stared at it long enough, they would notice the faintest hue of red staining its edges. In the North, the Red Moon Festival was merely a marker of the transition from autumn to early winter—nothing more, nothing less.

  On any other night, Brandon would have been brimming with energy, but tonight, a deep drowsiness weighed him down. After enduring dinner under his parents' watchful yet helpless gazes, he retired to his room early.

  When the moonlight streamed through his window, Brandon stirred, as if the silver beams had roused him from sleep. Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned toward the celestial body hanging outside. At some point, the bck cat, Mittens, had moved from the foot of the bed to curl up beside his head, silently watching the moon with him. The two remained like that, unmoving, until the moon began its descent and the shadows swallowed Brandon's face. Only then did boy and cat finally close their eyes and drift back into slumber, as if nothing had happened.

  The next morning, Brandon awoke early. As he tidied his bed, he gnced at Mittens, who was stretching zily, arching his back with his tail high in the air. "I dreamt that we were watching the moon together st night..." he mused aloud.

  With that, the new day began.

  A month passed, and the same dream repeated itself night after night. Every evening, Brandon and Mittens gazed at the crimson-tinged moon together, and every morning, Brandon awoke with the nagging feeling that this was more than mere coincidence. It was a sign, but of what? He couldn't say.

  One morning, as he stood by the window, his energy drained from the sleepless nights, he reached out and flicked Mittens' ear. "They say bck cats are mystical creatures. If you're really special, give me a sign."

  Mittens, as expected, offered no response beyond a flick of his tail.

  Brandon sighed. "Come on, zy thing. Let's go see if the schors know anything about this."

  With an effortless leap, Mittens nded on his shoulder, his weight nearly knocking Brandon off bance. "You're getting too big for this," he muttered, shifting the cat slightly. "You're a young lord yourself now, but I'm still just a child. Well, mentally, I'm not, but still! That doesn't mean you can keep perching on my head."

  By now, Mittens had grown significantly, his body stretching nearly seventy centimeters in length. Yet, despite his size, the cat clung to Brandon's shoulders like a lifeless serpent, limbs draped over him with an almost deliberate stubbornness. Brandon sighed again, resigned to his fate.

  The castle's schor, an elderly man named Sean, had served the keep for many years. He had also been Brandon’s teacher since the boy had begun his studies. Over time, Sean had come to admire his peculiar student. Though Brandon spoke little, his thirst for knowledge was insatiable. In just six months, he had mastered reading and writing. After that, he devoured books relentlessly, recording notes and posing questions that sometimes even left Sean at a loss. More than once, Sean had praised the boy to the Duke and Duchess, even suggesting that Brandon be groomed for schorly pursuits and, in time, sent to the fabled City of Wisdom to further his studies.

  Sean's quarters were modest—a small chamber within the grand library, no rger than ten paces across, containing little more than a bed and a desk. More often than not, he could be found at the grand writing table near the library’s entrance, diligently recording the history of the North.

  That was where Brandon found him.

  The old schor set down his quill and turned to his young pupil. "What troubles you, my boy?"

  Brandon expined his recurring dreams and the unease they stirred within him. Sean listened attentively, then chuckled. "Perhaps you are on the verge of awakening."

  Brandon blinked. "Awakening?"

  "Yes. The awakening of a mage."

  Brandon's expression froze. "A mage?"

  Sean sighed, as if recalling something distant. "Those fortunate enough to possess extraordinary abilities—the ones blessed by the gods with power. There is no need for arm. The emergence of such power is often heralded by signs—dreams, visions, strange occurrences. Some dream of a drop of water, others a fke of snow, a towering mountain. Every awakening is unique. But most who awaken experience some sort of recurring dream before it happens."

  "Awakenings only occur in the young," Sean continued after a pause. "Some abilities are grand and obvious, others are so subtle that their purpose remains unknown for a lifetime."

  Brandon narrowed his eyes. "And how will I know if I’ve awakened?"

  "Your body will tell you," Sean said simply. "The same way you instinctively know your hands and feet belong to you. At least, that is how it is recorded in the old texts."

  With that, the schor rose from his chair and motioned for Brandon to follow. They walked to the far end of the library, where Sean scanned the towering shelves before pulling down a thick, dust-covered tome. He pced it in Brandon’s hands with a knowing smile.

  "Start with this—The Book of Magicka. Let’s see if it holds the answers you seek."