On the eastern side of the world lay the cold and harsh island nation of Zeronthal—known for its brutal ruler, King Aldric IV, and his oppressive laws. In his kingdom, commoners were forbidden from wielding a sword or a wand, attending schools, or joining the royal army. These rights were reserved for the nobles, the wealthy, and those loyal to the royal family.
At the westernmost edge of Zeronthal sat a quiet coastal town called Dunlowe. There lived a young boy named Ryan with his parents, who owned the town's only inn—The Rustwood Inn. It was a crooked old building, made of creaking wood and coated in flaking red paint, fitting its name perfectly: wooden and rusty.
Ryan's father, Harwin, was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a limp. His mother, Mira, was a tired but sharp-eyed woman whose hands never seemed to rest. You could tell—if not for the hardships of this cruel country, she might have looked much younger and happier.
Because of Dunlowe's location along a trade route, many travelers and merchants passed through, often stopping at the Rustwood for food and rest. Not that it brought much profit—most of it was taken away in taxes anyway.
But there was one thing that wasn't taxed—and Ryan loved it more than anything else: stories. Along with money, travelers brought tales of distant lands and wild adventures. While helping his mother with the inn's chores, Ryan would quietly listen to these stories, soaking up every word.
One evening, a drunken man claimed he had seen a royal mage use magic with his own eyes. He described it with wild hand gestures and dramatic flair. Most people laughed and brushed it off as nonsense. But Ryan, only nine years old and full of curiosity, was completely captivated.
He used to ask his mother if she had ever seen magic, but she would always reply, "We're not privileged enough for such an honor." Ryan didn't fully understand what she meant, but he stayed quiet—just like he always did. He preferred listening and thinking over speaking. Maybe working at the inn had taught him that.
Then, one day, a strange-looking man walked into the inn.
He was dressed like a mage—flowing robes, polished boots, and a leather satchel strapped across his back.
Ryan had never seen anyone like him before. He looked too clean, too elegant to be from around Dunlowe. His clothes weren't patched or muddy, and there was a quiet confidence in the way he moved.
The man stepped up to the counter and placed a few silver coins down.
*"I'd like a room for the night,"* he said, his voice calm and refined.
Mira looked him up and down. His robes were clean, embroidered with faint gold patterns, and his boots looked like they had never touched Dunlowe's muddy roads.
*"I'm not sure we've got anything that suits... your kind of guest,"* she said, cautiously. *"We're just a small town inn. The rooms are—well, modest."*
The man offered a faint smile. *"I don't need anything fancy. A bed, a door that locks, and a bit of quiet is all I ask."*
Mira hesitated, wiping her hands on her apron. Something about him made her uneasy—not in a dangerous way, but in a way that told her he wasn't someone to argue with. She glanced at the coins again, then gave a small nod.
*"Alright then,"* she said, taking a key off the hook behind her. *"Follow me. It's upstairs, second door on the left."*
He gave a polite nod and followed her without another word.
From the corner of the room, Ryan watched it all in silence. His eyes followed the stranger's every step, curiosity burning quietly behind them.
When Mira came back down from showing the stranger to his room, she caught Ryan still staring at the stairs. His eyes were wide with curiosity, his hands frozen mid-wipe on a wooden mug.
She chuckled softly, brushing a hand over his messy hair.
*"You're curious, huh?"*
Ryan looked up at her but didn't answer. He rarely did when he was deep in thought.
Mira's voice turned firmer. *"Don't go near him, alright? That kind of man—he's not someone we can afford to bother."*
Ryan gave a small nod.
*"Promise me, Ryan."*
*"I promise,"* he said quietly.
The next morning, Ryan climbed up from the cellar where he slept, rubbing his eyes. The inn was quiet except for the usual creaks of old wood. He looked around. The strange man was gone.
Mira was wiping down the counter. *"He left early. Quiet type,"* she muttered. Then she looked up. *"Go upstairs and make the bed he used, would you?"*
Ryan nodded and headed up the stairs, still half-dreaming of swirling cloaks and glowing staffs.
The mage's room smelled faintly of herbs and smoke. The bed was unmade, and the shutters were open, letting in the cold morning light. As Ryan tugged at the bedsheets, something caught his eye near the nightstand—*a book*.
It was thick and leather-bound, with strange markings on the cover. No title, just a smooth black surface with a symbol pressed into it—a circle surrounded by smaller floating runes.
He opened it slowly. The pages were old but filled with colorful drawings—stones glowing mid-air, swirling water spirals, hands casting fireballs, shadows taking shape like wolves, trees growing from bare earth in seconds, and orbs of light hovering over open palms.
Ryan stared, eyes wide in wonder. He couldn't read the words, but the pictures were enough to set his imagination alight. He gently ran a finger over the illustration of a man standing in a magic circle, sparks dancing around his body.
His heart pounded.
He glanced at the door—no footsteps, no creaking floorboards. Carefully, he closed the book and tucked it under his arm.
Back downstairs, he didn't say a word. Not even when Mira asked if the room was clean. Later that day, when no one was watching, he crept down to the cellar with the book wrapped in an old cloth.
He found a loose board beneath the far wall, where dust and shadows gathered thick. Gently, he placed the book inside and covered it up again.
He didn't know why he did it. Only that it felt important—like a secret meant only for him.