DRACONIERA MOUNTAIN—

THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY
1238 CE

Mierta McKinnon.”

The twelve–year–old warlock gave a start, hearing his name announced telepathically. Mierta stood up on shaky legs and brushed his brown bangs out of his green eyes. The room inside Draconiera Mountain was suffocating. Hot springs bubbling up from deep beneath the ground created a dense fog, which pushed down on Mierta’s shoulders. Sweat was already dripping from his brow onto his long dark royal blue robe. His heart raced as he approached a large wooden door. He occasionally glanced over at others who were anxiously waiting their turn, wondering which of those he made eye contact with would succeed.

No matter what happens. No matter what I see. I cannot allow my fears to overcome me, Mierta told himself. I will achieve what I have come to do. I cannot fail. I won’t. I will make Mother and Father proud.

A loud creaking echoed across the room, and the ground shook underneath his feet. Two tall wooden doors opened up to a pathway of complete darkness.

“Step inside,” he heard the dragon say. Mierta swallowed hard and expelled air through his mouth.

Upon entering the pathway, a warm mist rose from below. Water splashed against rocks, and occasional water droplets hit his skin. A faint glow shined in the near distance. He walked towards the glow until he found himself in a large circular cavern. In the centre of this cavern was a short round pedestal. An opening off towards the right appeared as if it was open–aired, and off to the left side was another doorway, which was currently closed.

Mierta gazed up at the source of the glow and caught a glimpse of the magnificent creature standing on a rocky ledge. He could hear his pulse beating in his ears. He felt like his body was paralysed, yet he felt unsteady. His own rapid breathing masked the sound of Lord Kaeto stepping into the light.

Mierta gasped, shielding his eyes against the bright yellow light from Lord Kaeto’s wings, trying to conquer his fear. When his eyes adjusted, he noted the ebony veins that traced a pattern like the rivers in the valley. The veins seemed to pulse with power.

“Lord Kaeto,” Mierta uttered, bowing, keeping his eyes averted to the ground.

Lord Kaeto was the last of his kind—an omniscient ancient breed of telepathic dragons that had been around for longer than any could remember. The residents of the kingdom looked at him as if he were a God, straight from the stories of old.

“Mierta McKinnon. Rise,” he spoke. “It is your time to participate in the Rite of Wands in which your soul shall face the ultimate analysis. You will be taken on a journey of your lifetime, viewing portions of your past, present, and future. Do you concede?”

“Yes,” Mierta answered, his voice breaking.

The Rite of Wands was a tradition among witches and warlocks when they reached their twelfth birthday. It was a ceremony, which once completed, would signify their initiation into the magical community, thereby allowing them to start practicing making potions and casting spells.

I will not fail. I cannot fail, Mierta recited to himself.

“Very well,” Lord Kaeto nodded, pleased. “The Rite of Wands shall commence!”

Lord Kaeto tilted his head upwards and blew fire from his mouth.

Mierta lifted his hands to cover his face. When he heard the sound of the bolt slide open from the other side of the room, Mierta lowered his hands to watch as the door opened with a loud creak.

“Dragomir will be assisting me with the ritual,” Lord Kaeto said as he eyed the warlock who was entering the room.

Out stepped a warlock wearing tall black boots, a black tunic with a golden lacing, royal blue breeches and a long sleeved white linen shirt. His face was hidden behind an orange and golden mask shaped like a dragon’s head. The warlock raised his right hand into the air and shouted, “Forina olivet!”

A lightning bolt crashed down beside him, followed by the sound of drums beating, which gradually became louder until it matched every thump of Mierta’s frantic heart.

While the door closed behind him, Dragomir walked to the edge of the room and bowed to the dragon. The drums stopped abruptly.

The warlock bowed his head toward Mierta.

Mierta glanced back not assured.

“His appearance may look frightening, but do not fear,” Kaeto continued. “I assure you he is only here to help me perform the magic, which is tiring for me. Now, Mierta, keep your eyes upon mine at all times. You may feel a tingling sensation as I investigate your essence.” He turned toward the warlock. “Dragomir, you may begin, wand at the ready.”

Mierta watched Dragomir raise his wand and hold it out towards him. He took in a deep breath. He had heard stories about the Rite of Wands, but it was forbidden for anyone to discuss specifics of their individual ritual. The little knowledge he had, told him the ceremony represented a kind of test before he would either be accepted or not as a full member of the magical community. If he failed, there would not be another chance; he would become a Magulia—a magical person without his or her powers. Magulians were looked down on and lived the remainder of their lives as outcasts.

The Rite of Wands began when Lord Kaeto entered his soul, though he did not know exactly what would happen. What he was about to see was a mystery, but, how he endured would determine his fate.

When Mierta stared into Lord Kaeto’s golden amphibian eyes, they were not frightful like he expected. Instead, they appeared old and sad, as though he already knew what he was about to see. This sent a chill down Mierta’s body.

Lord Kaeto could see what Mierta’s heart desired. There was both good and evil inside him, caused by a deep hurt that had yet to be mended.

Please, do not curse me to a life without magic, Mierta begged.

At the same time Dragomir shouted, “Fedish ramtatí!”

It did not take long before Mierta started to feel the effects of the spell. First, he experienced what felt like a dozen small bugs crawling up his skin. His mind urged him to scratch to rid his body of them. He reached out a hand to scratch his left arm, when suddenly Dragomir cast another spell. “Gañoth!”

Mierta abruptly stopped. A small, “oooof” escaped his lips as he was promptly thrown backwards against the pedestal located directly behind him. He felt as if all the air was being released from his lungs, followed by intense pain, as though he had been punched in the stomach. Stars filled his vision.

Dragomir watched the young warlock’s eyes start to roll. He pointed his wand straight at Mierta’s heart and stepped in close to deliver the final blow. There was no hesitation in Dragomir’s movements or guilt in his eyes. He swung his hand around in a large circle and shouted, “Draciolamus!”

Mierta gasped and his eyes re–focused. He was rewarded with air returning to his lungs. He took in several deep breaths, treasuring them as if they were to be his last. He closed his eyes and reopened them just in time to see a set of arms and hands appear, detached and demon–like. They were the colour of misty grey mixed with black. As the disembodied parts slithered toward him like a snake, a moaning sound emanated from them.

He must have cast a spell that causes hallucinations. Oh, how brilliant! I reckon as long as I don’t give in to the fear, I will get through this, Mierta thought.

Mierta wanted to break the trance; however, he was determined not to show the dragon any weakness. One day, he was certain, he would become the most powerful warlock in Iverna. He would do wonders for the magical community while he sought vengeance for the crime committed against his mother.

His body trembled while the hands crawled up his legs. His pulse increased again and his breathing became uneven once he felt them slip underneath his breeches. They climbed up his legs and made their way under his wool shirt until they reached his chest. Then they stopped.

“Lord Kaeto?” Mierta questioned, perplexed.

He let out a cry when he felt a sharp, stabbing pain. One of the hands had entered his body through the right side of his chest. Crying out again when the other hand followed through his left side, Mierta glimpsed down to see a gruesome sight of blood saturating through his royal blue robe where the hands had entered him. He felt overly hot as blood rushed to his face and nausea built in his throat. Taking a step forward, he heard a squishing sound. Looking down he saw blood had pooled at his feet.

“Lord Kaeto,” Mierta uttered between breaths. “What?”

A high–pitched ringing filled his ears. The world before him rapidly spun and transformed into white puffy clouds. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his knees buckled as the darkness engulfed him.