The Story of a Sorcerer

Standing by the cold stone wall was a young man. He looked to be about twenty‑five years old. His chest heaved sharply from his too‑fast, ragged breathing; his heart was thrashing in a frenzied dance, and the rapid pulse throbbed in his temples. The storm had been raging outside for a long time. A veil of heavy rain had engulfed the city. His clothes were soaked through. His hair clung to his forehead and temples, and large raindrops streamed down his face, washing over his bloody hands and face. Somewhere inside the mansion, he had left the lifeless body of a man. The young man wasn’t a killer or a maniac — he was a sorcerer. Though, in his own view, he hadn’t truly been one for about nine, maybe even ten, years — not since he’d lost the ability to summon his magical weapon reliably. And even when he managed to conjure it, it was impossible to use. The meeting he’d gone to, as he’d thought, was supposed to help him understand himself and what was happening in his life. He believed that if he met and talked to the one who appeared to him every night in his dreams, making him shudder with terror, everything would end. But fate clearly had other plans. Swallowing the lump in his throat, the young man cautiously moved away from the wall. He checked the dagger in his pocket and glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then headed for the exit from the mansion’s grounds. Behind him lay a house that had once been his home — though that felt so long ago that he couldn’t even remember how many years had passed. Or perhaps the building had never really been his home at all. As he left the estate, a mix of emotions showed on his face: disgust, distaste, and fear. Fear that someone would find out about what he’d done — and that that someone wouldn’t be a stranger, but his adoptive father. The blue‑eyed young man pulled the hood of his dark grey sweatshirt over his head to keep the rain off, though it hardly mattered at this point. He trudged along the roadside towards the city. And behind the young killer’s back remained the house — the house where the body of his biological father lay, riddled with knife wounds.