Clouds swept across the sky, arid winds blew through the tundra and the sun shone prismatic tones onto melting droplets. But Félis wasn’t admiring the scenery. No. He was admiring the rapidly approaching ball of flame and death.

  He dashed aside, and shuddered as it landed behind him with a skull rattling boom. The flames were blinding white and a single unprotected hit would turn his skin to charcoal.

  And they were fast. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a second one zipping towards him. He twisted, and even with his catlike reflexes, barely avoided it, sending himself off balance. Still, the wave of heat struck him like a slap across the face.

  Then, mid fall, a third one rushed towards him, aimed right where he was dropping. He wouldn’t be able to dodge this one.

  “Lightstrike!” He called.

  A circle of light materialised before him and a beam shot from its centre to rip through the third fireball. He landed, rolled and took off.

  He hurried backwards while the attacker took the opportunity to close the distance. At this range, he couldn’t take advantage of his faster magic speed.

  “Let phthalo burst forth!”

  A beam of blue light exploded at the attacker’s feet and slowed his advance, allowing Félis to create distance.

  “May brightness fall at my command!” He cried.

  Consecutive lines of light traced the attacker’s path as he raced across the field, moving with surprising speed–for a man of such size–and throwing himself behind an outcrop of boulders.

  Félis took a moment to consider his next move. He didn’t know what spell the man was casting, but it was best to strike first. He needed to create an opening.

  “Let pthalo burst forth!”

  A ray of light shot from the circle hed manifested, past the boulders and hit the ground explosively. Rocks and dust flew into the air.

  Félis ran towards the outcrop, trying to open up an angle of attack while they were disoriented.

  Several fireballs flew over the rocks like artillery fire, striking at random. The attacker had estimated his location and was carpet bombing the whole area. He was blowing craters in the ground with sheer power alone.

  Félis dodged and weaved through the assault, sweat dripping down his forehead and stumbling over roots before making it out of the barrage. A quick glance over his shoulder showed crackling flames and mini craters dotting the land.

  Running up past the rocks, he turned, readying a spell and…

  No one was there.

  He twisted, but too late.

  Something struck him in the side and threw him to the ground. He gasped as heat coursed through his body and the aggressor stepped up beside him.

  He groaned and panted, breathing through the pain, which was not all that bad, considering how his runes were blunting the damage. The aggressor pulled off his own hood, revealing a rugged face, grey hair and emerald green eyes. He had a well trimmed beard which didn’t cover the scars running across his face.

  “Not bad. I see you’ve been working on your cast speed,” the stocky man said, holding out a hand.

  Félis grabbed it and stood shakily, “yes… you don’t pull your punches, father.”

  The man, Nobalte Allariste, chuckled heartily, “you say that every time.”

  The two laughed goodnaturedly and started off towards the building in the distance. Félis removed his headwear–an embarrassing cat patterned mask, a pair of steampunk looking goggles and a clasped riding helmet with protrusions on top for his ears. He breathed in the fresh mountain air as the heat and adrenaline from the sparring match wore off.

  His hair was all ruffled and his ears were twitchy from being squished by the riding helmet. He attempted, uselessly, to straighten out his hair, but it was honestly futile. It was so messy and disheveled that mother would call it a bird's nest, or a dryad’s cave, if she were here to see it.

  He could see his breath in the cold, mountainous air. They were trekking along the side of Mt. Obelisk, a stratovolcano located in the province of Arkel, Ulverich. Despite its once volatile nature, the upper half was coated in fluffy snow that shone pure white in the morning light, almost painful to look at.

  Ahead stood the Allariste estate, a large mansion situated halfway up Mt. Obelisk. It was double storied, with a courtyard of wintry exotics and long casement windows lining its walls, glinting like stars.

  The windows, located on the second storey, overlooked the town of Arkhangel’sk, a small mining town of about 12000 people. The houses were mostly timber from the surrounding forests and were the classic trapezium construction. One building stood out, however. It was the church, with the signature symbol of a triangle with a sun, placed atop a tower that poked out above the smaller, residential buildings.

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  __________________________________

  A short while later, Félis sat on a lavish four poster bed in a tastefully decorated room. Heavy tomes covered the bookshelf that spanned the back wall and a small couch sat before the windows, framed by diaphanous curtains.

  A book was laid near the foot of the bed, and he was flipping through the pages contentedly. It was marked 150 Years as The Leading Institute of Magical Development: Riyem Academy, by A.J. Khor.

  “The unique selling point of the Academy lies in its circular culture of students being taught by alumni, and those students returning after many years in their careers, as alumni, to become Professors... ”

  Félis flipped through the pages, yawning. He was interested in magical history and development, not how the Academy worked. He might have been talented, but he wasn’t touching that prestigious place anytime soon.

  He knew all the major academies sent scouts out around the world to find young talents, but he doubted anyone would have come to this backwater village in one of the remotest places on Earth. They sometimes had academics coming out here to check on the mines, but that was the extent of it.

  He had been surprised when Grim Baunfield, the train company, had built a station in Arkhangel’sk a few years back. It had to be terrible for business. There were maybe six people getting on or off the train every time it pulled into the station, nowhere near enough to cover the costs of sending a 1000 ton train through the dense acres of forest surrounding the North.

  He closed his book. He’d lost interest anyway. He wanted to get out of this place. It was cold and lonely and nothing ever happened.

  He was so bored that he’d be jumping with joy if a huge herd of mammaloths decided to stampede, just for some semblance of excitement. He looked at the squarish houses through the window, and stuck his tongue out at them.

  “Blep.”

  __________________________________

  “The letter’s from who?”

  “I’ve already told you. It’s from Andrey,” his father said, massaging his temples.

  “As in, Andrey Jeralt Khoroshiydevochka, the one that wrote Reflecting Upon The Fall of Neyfhwa and 150 Years As The Leading Institute of Magical Development?” Félis interrogated.

  “Yes.”

  “And why do we have a personal letter from Doctor Khoroshiydevochka?”

  “Because your mother attended the same academy as him and they’ve been good friends for years,” he had his head in his hands.

  “And WHY did I never know about this???”

  “Because you never asked?” He answered weakly.

  “You know I love history, and Doctor Khororshiydevochka is one of the most renowned historians in the Northern hemisphere!”

  “Alright, alright. Calm down. Don’t get your tail in a twist.”

  Félis twisted his tail up and glared at him.

  Finally he acquiesced, “fine.”

  A brief pause as they looked at each other.

  “What does it say?” Félis asked. A curious, but even, tone.

  “Here. Read it,” his father answered, handing over the envelope.

  Félis opened the envelope and pulled out a letter, a gold lined ticket and a metallic card.

  Dear Nobalte and Alice,

  I pray you are doing well, and apologise for the recent lack of correspondence. As you can imagine, there really has been no lack of work for people like me in these circumstances.

  On a far more exciting note, I know that your child, Félis, became 15 years of age as of Une.

  As such, it is my pleasure, as a Professor of Riyem Academy, to formally invite Félis Jean-d’arc Allariste to attend Riyem Academy.

  We, the faculty, would like to congratulate your child’s admittance to one of the most prestigious magical academies in the world, and we hope that the next three years will be of immense value and grandeur.

  Your child will begin attendance on Tember 4th, in 2 weeks time. We have prepared transport and accommodations for the first semester.

  We look forward to seeing your child on campus.

  Sincerely yours,

  A.J. Khor

  “Huh,” Félis muttered, “no way.”

  His father didn’t smile, exactly, but as Félis looked up, he could feel the smugness radiating off him.

  “Did you pull some strings?” Félis questioned, vaguely accusatory.

  “I heard the Academy granted the request after a special recommendation from Professor Khor.”

  “Oh… Well, thanks,” Félis admitted, a little bashfully.

  “Don’t thank me. Go thank your mother.”

  A mock salute.

  “Yessir. On my way!”

  __________________________________

  One very grateful letter later, Félis was perched on the dining room table, basking in the sunshine and watching the maid bring out a plate of boar meatstrips, encircled by various grapes, hafnas and mango slices. The plate landed on the table with a little clink and he launched himself at the food with a quiet “meow”, ripping apart the meat like it was cotton candy.

  What could he do? Magic made him hungry.

  His tail swayed contentedly as he swallowed the food and bent down to grab the edge of another piece, tossing it up and opening his maw to catch it. He paused halfway to find the maid staring at him with a strange look in her eyes.

  The meat landed on his nose with a wet “plap”, making him jump and twist with an angry howl, flinging the meat halfway down the table. He landed deftly and glared at the dumb little meat.

  Out of his periphery, he saw that the maid had a hand over her mouth and was giggling like a little girl, wavy hair bouncing and sweet laughter ringing out.

  Félis decided to glare at the maid instead. He stood up on his hindlegs and waved his paws angrily, hissing at her to stop laughing, until he remembered no human understood Cat. Curse me!

  He briefly pondered transforming into human, but it took some effort, time and left him in a vulnerable state. He instead stalked across the table to pick up the meat and swallow it, ignoring the laughter like clinking glasses echoing through the hall.

  He finished the rest of his meal in languid silence and was playing with two small mango balls when Father walked in, wearing a fluffy purple robe and holding a book in his hand.

  Upon seeing Félis, he broke into a grin, “I knew you’d be here. Stop playing with your food and listen up, I have something to show.”

  Félis ate the balls and strolled up to the head of the table, where he earned a scratch on the back of the head. He pushed his head against the hand and let out a purr of pleasure. Father’s hands were warm, like an oven left on.

  Father showed him a brown hardcover journal with the word ‘Félis’ stencilled into the spine and a moe style cat face on the front, both a rusty sort of gold colouring. He could tell it was high quality artistry. The artistic choices though…

  He poked it with a paw, looking up at Father with a questioning tilt of the head.

  “It’s your journal! Your mother and I talked it over, and decided that a journal would be the perfect parting gift for you.”

  He laid the book on the table and unclipped it, opening up to the first page, where there was a picture of a beautiful woman stroking two cats, one bigger than the other. The woman had long silken hair and a stern look on her face, while the cats appeared to be sleeping, one on her leg and the other on the armrest.

  Félis stared at it for a moment before father riffled through the pages.

  “When I was serving, they gave us something similar. You’ll be able to record your experiences at the Academy.”

  He went up and rubbed his head against the cover. It was scratchy.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Mrrp.”