The oak door thundered under triple impacts.
Grimnir jolted awake in his straw pallet, frostbitten toes curling against the chill. "Coming!" he croaked through chattering teeth. The orphan boy scrambled into threadbare layers, his breath crystallizing as he hauled open the creaking portal.
An avalanche wind slapped his face. Old Ham huddled on the rickety cart, frost-crusted pipe clamped between yellowed teeth. "Move your bones, whelp! These ruts'll cost us daylight." The carter's admonition carried the ritual cadence of seven winters past - ever since taking in the snowbound foundling with eyes too sharp for gutter trash.
Grimnir vaulted onto the splintered rails as the draft horse plodded through crystallized mud. Bithrel's spires clawed at the predawn gloom, their silhouettes blurred by snowfall. He counted time by the carriage's sway - three quarter-turns of the monastery's sandglass before they'd reach the keep. Just enough to steal another fragment of sleep...
The cart jolted onto cobblestones. Grimnir scrubbed ice from his eyelashes as Bithrel's walls loomed. Even after years of dawn raids into the carrion pits of nobility, the sight still clenched his gut. Two halberdiers at the postern gate nodded them through, their visors misted with exhaustion.
"Eyes down, boots quick," Ham muttered. But the Great Hall's threshold held unexpected peril - Steward Vilnius barred their path, his weasel face twitching with ill-contained excitement. "Stand sentry here. See nothing, hear less."
From the feasting chamber spilled crystalline shrieks. "...never attend Lilith's Cottage Academy! I won't be some cauldron-stirring crone!" A leather-bound volume arced through the doorway, skidding across flagstones.
When the storm of slamming doors subsided, Grimnir's fingers itched toward the discarded tome. Ham's pipe stem cracked across his knuckles. "Madness, boy! That's witch-marked parchment!"
"But look - the crest's torn off. Could pass for..." His whisper died as moonlight revealed the embossed title: Olfactory Grafting and Scent Cartography. No bard's romance this, but something that reeked of alembics and midnight rituals.
Ham crossed himself. "By the Nine Hells! That's no lady's chapbook. Toss it in the midden before -"
"Ware the steward!" Grimnir stuffed the volume under his patched jerkin. Let the old man fret; this reeked of opportunity. As their cart creaked back through the postern gate, the boy imagined sigils glowing beneath his ribs - his first stolen shard of thaumaturgical truth.
To commonfolk, witches reeked of sulfur and stolen stillbirths. Their legend-smithing tongues whispered of villages erased by plague-fog, of knights' armor melting like candle wax under baleful gazes. Yet Grimnir's calloused fingers trembled not from fear, but revelation - the stolen codex burned against his ribs with forbidden logic.
Olfactory Grafting and Scent Cartography unfolded like anatomical scripture. Diagrams of nasal cavities overlapped with alchemical symbols, their annotations speaking of "olfactory receptor epithelia" and "volatile compound gradients". The text coldly dissected human inadequacy: Homo sapiens - 400 scent discriminants. Pathetic biological baseline.
Comparison charts bloomed with grotesque wonders:
?Weeping Cockatrice (6,502 scent receptors): Detects parturient blood at 3 leagues
?Miasma Lepidoptera (8,203 receptors): Navigates by decomposition vapors
?Cerberine Alpha (17,852 receptors): The olfactory apex predator
Grimnir's breath hitched at the surgical schematics. A hellhound's tripartite snout cross-sectioned like clockwork, annotated with instructions for "ethmoid bone restructuring" and "olfactory bulb symbiosis". The recurring term cells pulsed with arcane significance, its precise meaning dancing beyond comprehension.
"Boy! You hex-touched or what?" Old Ham's pipe stem rapped his skull. The cart creaked under rotting banquet remnants - crystallized wine dregs shimmering like dragon scales in twilight.
As they bartered for tonight's debauchery supplies - casks of Duskwine, Blackisle opium resin - Grimnir's mind churned. The text's clinical tone implied achievable transformation, not dark miracles. What if witchery wasn't incantations, but... biological engineering?
"Seventeen winters already," Ham mused while counting copper pennies. "Time to find you a sturdy lass from Pinegrove Mill. My bones ache to hold a babe before joining the earth-song."
Grimnir barely registered the familiar refrain. His inner eye saw floating citadels breathing through gill-slits, rivers cascading upward into cloud-vaults - wonders only possible through systematic unraveling of nature's laws.
"Stop your death-talk," he absently countered. "You'll bury me first after drinking that rotgut."
The old carter's laughter scattered crows from twilight pines. Yet Grimnir's fingers kept tracing the codex's embossed sigils, each whorl whispering: The world is equations waiting to be solved.
Old Ham never lived to see Grimnir marry or father children.
When spring's chill began softening, the old carter and his ward purchased a cask of ale and mutton cuts from town, planning to renovate their cottage the next day. Yet come dawn, Old Ham lay cold in his bedroll, his weathered face frozen in contented slumber. Grimnir buried him beneath the hawthorn tree with his cherished pipe, the old man's savings now reduced to two gold sovereigns and seventeen silver marks.
Each night by tallow light, Grimnir studied Olfactory Modification and Scent Taxonomy, the stolen tome hidden beneath floorboards. Summer arrived unnoticed as he continued hauling nobles' refuse from Bithrel Keep.
Mary, the miller's freckled daughter, loaded provisions onto his cart with practiced efficiency. Her glances lingered on Grimnir's sharp features, though he paid no heed. Since Old Ham's passing, he'd maintained distance despite knowing her affection.
"Grimnir!" she blurted as he prepared to depart. "A sorcerer came through this morning! Asked directions to Bithrel."
The reins slipped from his hands. "A sorcerer? You're certain?"
"Grey robes, wide-brimmed hat," Mary gushed. "Carried a frog with crimson eyes. Spoke to Irma by the slaughterhouse."
Grimnir raced to the butcher's cottage. Irma, a matronly woman with flour-dusted apron, stood kneading dough while her boar-tusked husband Sogalar greeted him.
"Grimnir! Come sample yesterday's quarry!" The scarred hunter waved a haunch of venison. Two wide-eyed children peered from the kitchen doorway.
Half an hour later, Grimnir sprinted from Irma's cottage, muttering wildly: "He went to Bithrel City!" The cart clattered over cobblestones as the wheezing mare threatened collapse.
At the viscount's manor, the steward stood flanked by four armored knights, berating a crowd of farmers. "These lands belong to his lordship! Taxes rise as he decrees!" His shrill voice carried across the courtyard. Grimnir waited impatiently until the knights dispersed the protesters with booted blows.
"Late again, gutter rat?" The steward sneered when Grimnir approached. "Useless vermin! Don't bother returning tomorrow!"
Grimnir's fists clenched. Two silver coins extorted this month alone - half his wages. But vengeance would wait. He parked the cart beneath an elm and raced to the smithy.
"Eighth Brother!" The burly apprentice embraced him. Soot-stained and reeking of charcoal, the man once shared breadcrumbs with Grimnir in alleyways. "Heard about the sorcerer? Charges a gold coin for aptitude tests. Old master wasted his coin testing his dullard son..."
"Where?" Grimnir demanded.
"City Lord's Manor. But Grim, that's your whole savings—"
Grimnir already fled toward his hovel. He emptied the hidden chest - 100 silver coins clinking in a pouch. Clutching Olfactory Modification, he ran back to Bithrel as twilight lingered.
The manor's gates stood unusually open. Merchants and minor nobles streamed out, faces crestfallen. A sneering youth blocked Grimnir's path. "Test fee: one gold."
The pouch vanished into a strongbox without counting. Grimnir glared at the peasant-turned-gatekeeper before pushing through the crowd. Somewhere within these marble halls, his future waited.
The City Lord's manor far surpassed the viscount's estate in grandeur. Grimnir pushed through the crowded hall, his eyes locked on the gray-robed sorcerer seated atop a marble dais. The wizard's face remained obscured by swirling mist, exactly as Mary had described. Before him glowed a translucent crystal orb, its soft radiance bathing the hall in eerie light. A crimson-eyed frog croaked rhythmically beside it.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
This was a true sorcerer.
At the orb's base stood a plump, brown-haired girl gripping the artifact with trembling hands. The crowd held its breath until Grimnir noticed three figures behind the sorcerer: the City Lord's petulant daughter who'd discarded Olfactory Modification and Scent Taxonomy half a year prior, and two siblings sharing identical angular features.
The boy stood arrogantly, surveying hopeful applicants with contempt matching the fee-collector at the gates. His sister shrank from attention, unused to scrutiny. These must be the chosen apprentices.
Their names were Yorkris and Yorkliana - former hunter's children elevated to nobility's darlings after demonstrating arcane potential. Yorkris basked in his sudden importance, watching commoners grovel like tavern wenches.
"Mental Force: 6. Deficient. Next." The sorcerer's verdict turned the current applicant ashen.
Groans rippled through the hall. After a full day of testing, only the City Lord's daughter (rumored to have bribed her qualification) had passed.
"Mental Force: 5. Deficient. Next."
Grimnir's hope dwindled as the line advanced. Ahead stood Wade, heir to the Mooncove Tavern - a boy whose family coffers overflowed, yet wealth proved meaningless here.
Wade placed trembling hands on the crystal orb. As its glow intensified, Grimnir glimpsed the tavern heir slipping the sorcerer a pouch of glittering stones. The wizard's mist-shrouded face tilted imperceptibly. "Mental Force: 9. Adequate. Stand behind me."
Grimnir's stomach churned. Bribes worked even here.
When his turn came, the crystal's cold surface pulsed beneath his palms. The hall's cacophony vanished abruptly. Time crystallized - a teardrop hung midair from the City Lord's daughter, Yorkris' sneer frozen with fang-like canines exposed.
Then the hallucinations began.
Two gelatinous creatures with multicolored tentacles floated above a fruit platter, their bulbous bodies studded with blinking eyes. They phased through walls like ghosts. A candelabra morphed into a roasted boar's head, its seared eyelids peeling open to stare.
"Who dares disturb my ascension?" A paper-thin protagonist from an illustrated romance novel clawed free from its pages, wielding a two-dimensional sword. "Am I not the Dragon-Slayer Supreme?"
Before Grimnir could react, fissures spiderwebbed across marble floors. A serpentine tongue composed of writhing worms erupted, swallowing the shrieking paper figure.
Light exploded from the crystal orb. Time snapped forward.
"Mental Force: 12. Adequate." The sorcerer's verdict drew gasps.
Grimnir stumbled behind the dais, still tasting phantom worm-flesh. The hall's opulence showed no cracks, no otherworldly horrors. Even the boar-headed candelabra had reverted to normal.
"Lucky gutter rat," the City Lord's daughter muttered. Wade glared, no doubt calculating future humiliations.
But Grimnir clutched his stolen tome tighter. The veil between worlds had thinned - and he'd glimpsed what writhed beneath.
Exquisite wine glimmered in crystal goblets. Grimnir stared at the banquet table laden with seventy-odd sauces and sculpted roasts - delicacies he'd only heard tavern drunks describe. The City Lord's invitation stemmed solely from the sorcerer's favor.
"Grimnir." The mist-shrouded sorcerer's voice rasped like wind through dead leaves. "Those attaining Mental Force 10 naturally glimpse their talent during testing. Remember your vision - it will shape your path as a sorcerer."
"Understood, Master." Grimnir bowed. His "talent" involved eldritch horrors and sentient parchment - hardly auspicious omens.
The sorcerer turned to Lady Laffey and Wade. "Your Mental Forces fall short, but wizardry rewards intellect over raw power. Knowledge, not talent, forges true sorcerers."
The City Lord clapped. Eight maids presented lacquered plates bearing unremarkable clams. Grimnir frowned at his portion.
"Mermaid Clams!" The sorcerer's tone warmed. "A delicacy evolving human-like forms to deter predation. A rare treat since my southern voyages a century past."
The City Lord's plump hands adorned with seven glittering rings pried open a shell. Inside writhed a thumb-sized, boneless humanoid - soft-bodied and shrieking like a newborn mouse. He slurped the creature down with relish.
"Though delicious, their true value lies in purifying fire elements," the sorcerer lectured as Laffey and Wade hesitated. "But beware - consuming them draws sea demons to your flesh's scent."
Grimnir acted first. The clam's occupant squirmed under his gaze before meeting its fate. A briny sweetness flooded his mouth, followed by creeping warmth in his veins. The others followed suit, their faces twisting between revulsion and awe.
Grimnir swallowed the squirming creature to prove his resolve. Its faint screams echoed in his gut as he forced down nausea, mechanically chewing beef slathered in foie gras. The other boys—Yorkris, Wade, and Kilom—grimaced but followed suit. Only Yorkliana refused, pushing her plate away.
The banquet concluded without further incident. By Grimnir’s estimate, the feast’s cost exceeded two hundred gold coins, with the Mermaid Clams alone priceless.
The next morning, Grimnir rushed to reclaim his cart. Lady Laffey and Wade sneered as he delayed their departure for "that rickety eyesore."
"Filthy peasant!" the steward roared upon spotting him. "Didn’t I warn you? Break his legs!"
A hulking knight advanced, but a chilling voice cut through the courtyard: "A sorcerer’s dignity is inviolable."
A streak of black energy struck the knight, erupting into a swarm of winged insects. The man transformed into a squealing pig mid-scream, devoured by the ravenous swarm. The steward vanished next, snatched by a frog’s whip-like tongue.
Grimnir stood paralyzed. This was true sorcerous power—capricious, merciless.
After retrieving his cart, he bid farewell to Sixth Brother at the smithy.
"Are you... truly becoming a sorcerer?" the blacksmith’s apprentice stammered for the eighth time.
"An apprentice," Grimnir corrected weakly.
"An apprentice..." The man shook his head in awe. "But still—a sorcerer!"
Exquisite wine glimmered in crystal goblets. Grimnir stared at the banquet table laden with seventy-odd sauces and sculpted roasts - delicacies he'd only heard tavern drunks describe. The City Lord's invitation stemmed solely from the sorcerer's favor.
"Grimnir." The mist-shrouded sorcerer's voice rasped like wind through dead leaves. "Those attaining Mental Force 10 naturally glimpse their talent during testing. Remember your vision - it will shape your path as a sorcerer."
"Understood, Master." Grimnir bowed. His "talent" involved eldritch horrors and sentient parchment - hardly auspicious omens.
The sorcerer turned to Lady Laffey and Wade. "Your Mental Forces fall short, but wizardry rewards intellect over raw power. Knowledge, not talent, forges true sorcerers."
The City Lord clapped. Eight maids presented lacquered plates bearing unremarkable clams. Grimnir frowned at his portion.
"Mermaid Clams!" The sorcerer's tone warmed. "A delicacy evolving human-like forms to deter predation. A rare treat since my southern voyages a century past."
The City Lord's plump hands adorned with seven glittering rings pried open a shell. Inside writhed a thumb-sized, boneless humanoid - soft-bodied and shrieking like a newborn mouse. He slurped the creature down with relish.
"Though delicious, their true value lies in purifying fire elements," the sorcerer lectured as Laffey and Wade hesitated. "But beware - consuming them draws sea demons to your flesh's scent."
Grimnir acted first. The clam's occupant squirmed under his gaze before meeting its fate. A briny sweetness flooded his mouth, followed by creeping warmth in his veins. The others followed suit, their faces twisting between revulsion and awe.
Grimnir swallowed the squirming creature to prove his resolve. Its faint screams echoed in his gut as he forced down nausea, mechanically chewing beef slathered in foie gras. The other boys—Yorkris, Wade, and Kilom—grimaced but followed suit. Only Yorkliana refused, pushing her plate away.
The banquet concluded without further incident. By Grimnir’s estimate, the feast’s cost exceeded two hundred gold coins, with the Mermaid Clams alone priceless.
The next morning, Grimnir rushed to reclaim his cart. Lady Laffey and Wade sneered as he delayed their departure for "that rickety eyesore."
"Filthy peasant!" the steward roared upon spotting him. "Didn’t I warn you? Break his legs!"
A hulking knight advanced, but a chilling voice cut through the courtyard: "A sorcerer’s dignity is inviolable."
A streak of black energy struck the knight, erupting into a swarm of winged insects. The man transformed into a squealing pig mid-scream, devoured by the ravenous swarm. The steward vanished next, snatched by a frog’s whip-like tongue.
Grimnir stood paralyzed. This was true sorcerous power—capricious, merciless.
After retrieving his cart, he bid farewell to Sixth Brother at the smithy.
"Are you... truly becoming a sorcerer?" the blacksmith’s apprentice stammered for the eighth time.
"An apprentice," Grimnir corrected weakly.
"An apprentice..." The man shook his head in awe. "But still—a sorcerer!"
After a day’s journey, Grimnir learned the sorcerer’s name—Arovoze. Their destination, Lilith’s Cottage Academy, lay two months’ voyage from Zelato Harbor.
“We will visit two more cities before reaching the port. Until then, you may each ask me one question without cost,” Arovoze announced as their group of seven trudged onward.
Among the six apprentices, Jilom clung closest to the sorcerer. The boy doted on Arovoze like a servant, hauling his belongings and earning occasional rewards. His sycophancy drew scorn from the others.
“Master, your teachings on mental meditation remain too profound for my feeble mind…” Jilom simpered, adjusting the heavy bundle on his back.
Wade glared at the brown-noser. “Pathetic lickspittle,” he muttered.
Yokris, trailing behind with his timid sister Yokliana, sneered. “Fools. Once I master true sorcery, they’ll grovel at my feet.”
Grimnir hung back, conserving his single question. Arovoze’s emphasis on “free” hinted at future costs for knowledge. Instead, he approached Laffey, the reluctant apprentice.
“The wizarding world?” The City Lord’s daughter eyed him with weary resignation. “Forget your status here. Unless you become a full sorcerer, you’ll never return.”
Grimnir blanched. “Imprisoned?”
“Not cages, but distance.” Her voice turned hollow. “The sorcerer’s continent spans beyond comprehension. There, might equals law. No power? No arcane coins? No patronage? Stay invisible or perish.”
Hours later, Grimnir’s romantic notions of wizardry lay shattered. Survival, not glory, would define his path.
Grimnir swallowed hard, his throat dry as he processed Laffey’s words. For hours, he wrestled with the brutal reality she’d painted—a world where apprentices vanished like smoke under a sorcerer’s whim. Returning to Bithrel’s familiar squalor suddenly seemed tempting, a safe harbor against the storm of uncertainty. Yet the memory of Old Ham’s weathered face and the steward’s sneering cruelty hardened his resolve.
Laffey watched his internal struggle, her voice softening slightly. “The Arcane Spires enforce order. Even sorcerers bow to their laws.”
The caravan trudged onward until bandits erupted from the underbrush. Before Grimnir could react, Arovoze’s crimson-eyed frog swelled to monstrous size. Its thunderous leap crushed the last fleeing raider into a pulpy smear. Yorkris collapsed, retching, as gore splattered his boots.
“Survival demands conviction,” Laffey muttered, steadying herself against a tree.
Later, Grimnir approached Arovoze, his question trembling on chapped lips. “Master, what fuels sorcery’s power?”
The sorcerer’s mist-shrouded visage tilted approvingly. “An astute inquiry.” He produced a leather-bound tome embossed with Meditative Principles. “A sage once said: ‘Grant me infinite knowledge, and I shall move worlds.’”
Grimnir clutched the book, its pages whispering secrets. “But if mana and knowledge are twin pillars, why prioritize the latter?”
Arovoze’s laughter rasped like wind through dead leaves. “Mana is the spark, apprentice. Knowledge fans it into infernos.”
As the sorcerer strode ahead, Grimnir’s mind swarmed with unspoken questions—each a stepping stone toward truths far darker, and grander, than he’d ever imagined.
