Three weeks after the Manchester incident, the headquarters of the Department of Supernatural Affairs (D.S.A.) in London was buzzing with unusual activity. In the white marble corridors of the prestigious building, employees whispered in small groups, exchanging the latest rumors about "the prodigy child of Manchester."
Director General Marcus Whitfield, an imposing man with graying temples, paced nervously in his top-floor office. His hands trembled slightly.
"Sir?" His assistant, Mrs. Pemberton, peeked through the half-open door. "The Lane family has arrived."
Whitfield adjusted his tie and made his way to the grand reception hall.
Solomon Lane, sitting in a chair far too big for him, swung his legs in the air while flipping through a children's magazine. He wore a simple red sweater and jeans.
His parents—a medium-sized man with chestnut hair and a blonde woman—looked slightly intimidated by the grandeur of the place.
"Mr. and Mrs. Lane," Whitfield said, approaching them with his best smile. "It's an honor to meet you. And you must be Solomon."
The boy looked up from his magazine and studied him.
"You're the boss here?"
"In a way, yes. I'm the Director General."
Solomon nodded, then went back to reading.
Michael Lane, Solomon's father, cleared his throat.
"Mr. Whitfield, we... we still don't quite understand what's going on. That woman, Mrs. Volkov, told us our son had... special abilities?"
"Special abilities. That's putting it delicately. Your son, Mr. Lane, is what we call a mage. And not just any mage."
Sarah Lane, Solomon's mother, shook her head vigorously.
"That's impossible. Michael and I—we don't have any magical powers. How could our son have them?"
Michael turned sharply to his wife.
"Unless someone cheated."
"How dare you!" Sarah leapt from her seat, cheeks flushed. "How can you even suggest such a thing?"
"Well then, explain it to me! The two of us are perfectly normal, and suddenly our kid does magic? That doesn't come from nowhere!"
"You're implying I had an affair with a... a wizard?"
"I'm not implying anything, Sarah. I'm just saying the numbers don't add up."
"The numbers? Our marriage is just numbers now?"
Whitfield raised his hands in a calming gesture.
"Please, both of you—calm down. While it is indeed very rare, it can happen that a non-mage couple gives birth to a magically gifted child. It usually occurs when there are mages somewhere in the family tree, even distant ones—sometimes a single magical ancestor whose genes reappear after several generations."
Michael crossed his arms.
"Look, Mr. Whitfield, I get that you're trying to be diplomatic, but let's be clear: I know my family four generations back. No mages. Zero. None."
Sarah turned to her husband, her eyes shining with barely held tears.
"And I know mine too. But we don't know everyone, Michael. Maybe there were distant ancestors—great-great-grandparents we've never heard of."
"Are you serious right now? You're really going to blame this on some ancestor from five generations ago?"
Whitfield cleared his throat softly and glanced pointedly at Solomon.
"Might I remind you that your child is listening?"
Solomon snapped his magazine shut.
"So, what now? I promised Tommy we'd play football this afternoon."
The innocence of the remark froze every adult in the room.
"Well," Whitfield said, regaining his composure, "we'd like to begin with a few... tests. Just to better understand your abilities."
Solomon shrugged.
"Okay. But if it's boring, I'm going home."
---
The walls were lined with sensors.
In the center, a circle marked the testing area. All around, observers took their places behind reinforced glass: Whitfield, Anastasia Volkov, and three others who had come to witness the event.
Mr. Edmund Blackthorne—no relation to Cornelius, who died in Manchester—was leading the tests. In his sixties, this wiry man with steel-rimmed glasses had a reputation as one of the sharpest magical theorists in the Empire.
"All right, Solomon," he said, checking his tablet. "We'll start with some simple exercises. Can you show me your flame?"
Solomon, standing in the middle of the circle, lazily raised his right hand. A small golden flame appeared above his palm, no larger than a candle.
The sensors instantly went wild.
"Incredible," Blackthorne murmured as he looked at the readings.
"That's it? Want me to do something else?"
"Uh... yes. Can you intensify the flame?"
Solomon shrugged again.
The flame grew to the size of a fist.
This time, three sensors exploded in a shower of sparks.
"Holy crap!" a technician exclaimed. "The measuring circuits just blew! That flame is putting out more energy than a class 10 spell!"
"And yet," Anastasia whispered behind the glass, "it doesn't give off any heat. Look—the testing circle isn't even warm."
Indeed, Solomon stood inside a flame that should have consumed him, but his hair didn't singe, and his clothes remained intact.
"Solomon, can you extinguish the flame and tell us how you're doing this?"
The child closed his hand and the flame vanished.
"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "It's like... you know how when you move your arm, you don't think about all the muscles you have to contract? You just want to move your arm, and it moves."
"That's... that's actually one of the hallmarks of innate spells," Blackthorne whispered. "Perfect instinctive control. No calculations. Pure intuition."
"Well," Solomon said, yawning, "can we try something else? Because this is really not very fun."
Blackthorne glanced at Whitfield, who gave a small nod.
"Very well. Let's move on to resistance testing. Can you hold the flame for, say... five minutes?"
"Five minutes?" Solomon looked genuinely surprised. "Why only five minutes?"
He raised his hand again, and this time, a much larger flame burst forth. It danced in the air, changing shape and color—gold, white, then a blood-red hue that made the observers shiver.
"There. I'll let you know if I get a headache or something."