IGNITION

He was 12 when magic was still in his future. Mother and Father had decided to take him on a tour of the boarding school his brother attended, just in case his magic started working. They didn’t say it, but Russell knew it was what they hoped. Perhaps visiting a potent magic area with plenty of young magicians would be enough to light his spark, so to speak.

Russell was not thinking about that. He, truth be told, was starting to lose faith that he would ever have magic of his own. His whole life he’d gone without any onslaughts of random spells in fits of emotion, without any accidental summonings. He doubted they would start any time soon. He could never tell Mother and Father that, though. To keep their faith, he had to keep his. So, he stood in front of the gates to the Brun Academy of Magic, and felt a pit growing in his stomach. Mother was to his left, Father to his right. He watched the sea breeze ruffle the leaves of the surrounding trees as his parents spoke with the posted security guard. Strands of his hair were blown about by a particularly strong gust, & Mother looked to him as if it was his fault.

He knew better than to argue. She brushed his hair into a presentable look, her rings were cold against his head.

Martin, his older brother, was approaching them, saying something. Russell had been born deaf, and was just now teaching himself how to read lips, but he was far from mastering it. Martin had a beaming smile on his face. He was looking at their parents, explaining something. His hands were moving, but he wasn’t saying anything. He looked so proper in his uniform, Russell thought. He wondered how he himself would look in that uniform.

Martin looked at him. He said, “Hello, Russell.”

His smile had fallen.

Martin took his family inside the gates, waving his hands in both gesture and speech as he showed them around the campus. First, they visited the Great Hall, a large and exquisitely decorated cathedral of sorts, filled with tables and chairs. After this were various classrooms–Martin explained that the ones he showed them were where he learned to control his fire better, how to summon fire better, and finances.

“Because,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “I of all people need to know that.”

Their parents laughed, but Russell thought it strange. He did need to know his way around his family’s money, it’d be irresponsible of the eldest son not to. But, again, he knew better than to argue.

Martin rushed them through the dorms, eager to avoid his room. Though, they did run into someone in his hall. Russell didn’t remember their name, but they seemed friendly with his brother, and they were friendly with him. Even after being given the “Deaf, magic-less little brother” speech.

Martin guided his family to the courtyard, and as they walked, he lamented on how his and Russell’s older sister, Elizabeth, couldn’t have joined them. She had said something about needing to study for an exam. Russell swore though, that he saw her blonde head disappear into some hallway near the Great Hall.

The courtyard was all that was between them & the gates. There hadn’t been any “magic spark,” and Russell’s feet were starting to ache. It was a much bigger school than it looked, which wasn’t great, because it already appeared ginormous.

They were making their way to the gates when Martin’s attention turned elsewhere. Somebody had probably yelled for him, so Russell looked where he did, & his suspicions were confirmed. Approaching the family were two people: A freckled white boy who looked around Martin’s age, and a bespectacled black girl who was probably the youngest person there. She couldn’t have been older than 10. She was trailing behind the boy, who was waving excitedly. He talked to Martin, then to their parents. He gestured to himself & the girl, who gave a small nod of her head. Martin, in turn, gave them the little brother spiel. The boy straightened up, turned right to him, and emphasized saying “S-O-R-R-Y.”

The girl chastised him, & also turned to Russell. Unlike her companion, she started signing.

“My apologies,” She said, “He doesn’t do a lot of thinking.”

“It’s alright,” He responded. “I’m Russell.”

“My name is Petunia, this is Andromeda. We’re sort-of friends with your brother.”

“Sort of?”

“I don’t know him very well. Andromeda’s closer.”

Andromeda said something to her, and she mumbled something back.

“Are you thinking about attending here?” She asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t use magic.”

Petunia pursed her lips. “Even if you can’t, you’re still welcome to come visit.”

Andromeda gave him a thumbs up. Russell smiled at him.

Martin said something to the two of them, and Russell noted the force in his movements. Petunia raised her eyebrows.

“He’s telling us to leave, respectfully.”

“Seriously?”

“Not literally, but it’s implied.” That was Martin. All implication, never a straight answer.

“Well, it was nice to meet you Petunia.”

“You as well. See you later.”

She said something to Andromeda, then their parents, and she turned to leave. Andromeda clearly did not want to be left behind, all wide eyes and hurried movements. He waved goodbye to each member of the family and hurried behind his young friend.

Mother said something, and Martin hushed her.

On the ferry back to the mainland, Russell watched Brun Academy get smaller and smaller. Mother & Father stood some distance away, talking, probably about him. He noticed something small and white in the sky, and he first thought it to be a bird. As it got closer, angular folds & rough crinkles became clearer to his eye.

A folded paper bird landed gently at his feet. He bent and scooped it up. In a messy, scratchy font was his name.

He smiled.

Magic. He hoped he could harness it someday.

He was 14, and his hope in having magic was waning fast. Two years since he’d been to Brun, & he hadn’t returned in attendance. Just visiting when he was supposed to be in school. The first time he’d visited was just one week after he’d seen the school. In his flying letter, Andromeda had apologized for his rudeness again, and begged him to come visit. He wanted to be friends.

Russell found it strange, but he’d written back, saying that he’d be fine with that.

He’d asked Father how to make the letter fly like Andromeda had, & Father agreed to show him, a smile wide on his wrinkled face.

When nothing happened, even after double-checking if the runes were right, Father’s smile fell. Strike two.

Father had still sent the letter flying with his own magic. Russell got his response from Andromeda a day later, begging him to come back to the academy and to just call him Andy. And so, at 12 years old, Russell took a road away from his school one morning, snuck on the train & ferry, and arrived back at his brother’s school to see his brother’s friends.

Now, at 14, he did the same. If his parents knew, he didn’t care. They probably thought it was a sign of an “arcane awakening.” Martin, of course, had found out on the second visit, as Russell had run into Elizabeth on his first. She knew when to keep her mouth shut, but not when it came to her youngest brother.

This time, Russell was sitting with Andy under a tree in the courtyard. The sun was disappearing behind the sea, painting the sky with a wonderful, fiery orange. Andy had brought his astronomy homework he’d been struggling with–it was something about charting stars, he’d explained, which had to do with math, which he sucked at.

For Russell, math was one of the only things he thought he could do right.

“You know,” Andy said–he’d picked up signing quite quickly– “They make me do this to figure out the weather.”

“For your spells, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t get it. If I control the weather, why learn how it usually goes?”

“So you can put it back on course when you’re done fucking with it.”

Andy looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“What was that word? Fucking?” He mimicked the sign.

“It’s fuck. F-U-C-K.” Russell spelled it out.

Andy grinned from ear to ear, his dimples making him look rather mischievous.

“Do you talk to your parents like that?” He asked, jokingly.

“Absolutely not, they’d kick me out for that.”

Andy laughed, but Russell didn’t.

“I’m not joking, they would.” He said once Andy had stopped.

His smile quickly turned into a frown. “Seriously?”

Russell nodded.

Andy didn’t say anything immediately, so Russell turned his attention back to the other boy’s homework. As he did, Andy grabbed his shoulder.

“You know that’s not normal, right?”

“Of course.”

Andy stared at him, and Russell couldn’t help the way his heartbeat picked up. He didn’t like eye contact, and he usually watched people’s mouths anyway. So he looked at Andy’s lips. His frown was parted ever so slightly. He watched as he spoke something, probably a swear word.

“We should get back to your homework.” Russell put his hands between them. Andy physically deflated, slumping his shoulders and sighing.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Always happy to help.”

That night, when he’d returned to the manor, Mother asked how his day had gone. He lied, of course, saying how school had been nothing much, and that he’d been wanting to come home all day.

After dinner, he went to his room & locked the door. When he turned around, his window was open. On the sill was a folded bird with his name on it. He took it from the sill, closing the window. He placed the paper bird on his desk and undressed for bed.

He didn’t open the bird until the next morning.

On it was written a simple message: “Sorry :-(“

Russell sighed as it fell gently from his hands onto the desk.

He was 16 when he gave up on magic completely. It never came to him. His fire never sparked. As he dodged a blast from Martin, he thought, “Maybe one less pyromancer isn’t such a bad thing.”

Martin screamed something at him, a vein in his pale forehead bulging. Russell could never figure out what he did that set his brother off, but if he could guess, he wouldn’t be able to. He did too many things, rather, didn’t do anything that Martin had started to find annoying. Brun had left him with a sort of complex: Magicians were better than Non-Magicians. To Martin, if you didn’t have magic, you were nothing but scum under his boot. Russell was no exception to this complex.

It was strange, though. None of Martin’s friends, who had slowly become Russell’s, graduated with the same ideals as his brother. Russell figured it was because most of them weren’t as wealthy or powerful as their family.

Martin threw another fireball his way, aiming for his head. Russell ducked down as it crashed into the wall behind him, sending bits of wood and plaster careening onto his back. Russell kept his eyes on Martin, who spat out a few words before raising his hand again.

Elizabeth grabbed his wrist and shouted something at him. Her eyes met Russell’s, and while she may have interrupted their brother’s barrage, the rage in her eyes was more venomous than Martin’s.

He knew that look. Time to go.

Russell scrambled up from where he’d ducked and made his way out of the room. Out of the house. He stepped onto the cobblestone circle of the family’s driveway & looked at the sky. The clouds were gray, & a gust of wind blasted his face. It looked like it was going to rain.

He knew who to go to. He just didn’t know where.

Andy was living with another school friend now. If Russell remembered correctly, her name was Gillian. He knew they moved into a small townhouse close to the city’s harbor, which was both a long walk from his family’s mansion-filled neighborhood, and a vague as hell description. He took the walk, nevertheless.

Having magic, especially pyromancy, must be helpful with relieving stress, he thought. Why else would Martin wield it like he did?

He watched the sky as he got closer to Downtown, and worried it would rain before he found Andy & Gillian’s.

He bumped into someone. Just his shoulder, but whoever it was was slightly taller than him, and leaned over at the impact.

He looked, and saw Petunia looking back at him, except that wasn’t his name anymore, Russell, it was Ambrose.

His face heated up, embarrassed at his screw-up in his head. He gave a small wave. Ambrose looked mortified.

“Russell,” He said, “You look like shit.”

“I know,” He was squinting, a pressure behind his eyes threatening to spill over. He did not want to cry in public, especially not in front of Ambrose, who wasn’t the best at comforting people. He knew from experience.

Ever the friend, the other boy brushed a chunk of plaster off Russell’s shoulder. He was amazed it hadn’t fallen off.

“You’re not hurt.” It was a statement, not a question. Ambrose’s magic had something to do with healing. When he’d started telling people their injuries and ailments out of thin air, people had, reasonably, freaked out, Russell included.

“Yeah, no.” He responded, instead of “What the fuck?”

“Where are you going?”

“Andy’s house.”

“You’re going the wrong way. It’s down that street.” He pointed to a road going off to the right. “Do you want me to show you?”

Russell’s face got warmer. He was probably beet red. “Yes, thank you.”

“Of course. Come on.” He grabbed him by the arm, looked both ways for any carriages, and dragged him across the street.

“Wait, where were you going?” Russell asked once they had crossed.

“Groceries. But, it can wait."

Andy & Gillian’s house was bright yellow & about a block from the sea. Ambrose walked up their white stone steps and knocked on the door. Another gust of wind chilled his face, and he wanted nothing more than to get inside.

Gillian, a black woman with long braids, answered the door. She said something to Ambrose, and then saw Russell.

“What happened?” She knew about Martin. How could she not? “Please, come inside.”

Ambrose spoke to her, and Russell saw him say “I have to go.” He turned to him, and said “Take care.”

Russell stood in front of the door as Ambrose walked away. He didn’t watch him go.

Gillian said, “It’s going to rain any moment.”

He nodded, and stepped inside. The house opened directly into a living room, which led off in two different ways–one doorway led to a staircase going up, the other to a small kitchen. Closing the front door behind him, he realized Gillian was gone. She had probably gone to one of the other rooms. Five candles sat in a windowsill to his right, all at varying stages of being lit. Raindrops had begun to hit the window they illuminated.

Russell took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes with his forearm. Gillian still hadn’t come back into the room.

Maybe that, he thought, was for the better.

He was 18 when he was finally free from it all.

He’d begun to spend less and less time at home after Martin first attacked him. Whenever he went back there, the yelling would begin again. After only a few minutes, flames would whizz by his head or legs, and he would do his best to clumsily dodge them. Martin never aimed anywhere else, thank the Gods for that.

He would always end up back at a friend’s house. Gillian and Andy had cleared out space for a small room for him–it wasn’t decorated, it just had a bed, drawers, and a small table, but it was more than enough for him. Ambrose was applying to various colleges abroad, and practically begged Russell to come with him. Russell had to remind him every time that no magic meant no degree in it. Ambrose would then remind him that it was never about magic, and always about getting out of Erden. One of his parents would usually then appear behind him and ask him what he meant by that, and he’d get incredibly embarrassed.

Russell never understood the embarrassment. If he was to leave the country, he wanted his parents to care like that.

They never would, though.

A few days after his 18th birthday, he returned to the manor. He hadn’t spent any of his birthday with his family, instead celebrating with his friends on a night out. If anyone had noticed that the youngest Magus was bumping elbows with common magicians, they hadn’t said anything.

Or at least, they’d said nothing to him. The servant who’d opened the grand door to him stared with wide eyes. She quickly wiped the look off her face and forced a polite smile.

“Welcome back, Master Russell.” She said.

“Thank you.” He kept his face calm and emotionless, mouth drawn in a thin, straight line. The servant held the door open for him and gave a small bow as he entered, but quickly grabbed him by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“A word of warning, if I may?” She asked.

He nodded.

“The family has been…quite upset for the past few days. Master Martin especially. I would advise you to avoid him, but I have no idea where he is. Your Mother has been asking for you, I humbly ask that you see her straight away.”

“Right. Where is she?”

“Your Father’s study, if I recall.”

Russell patted the hand that was still on his shoulder, giving the servant a weak smile as sweat began to bead on his hands. Women were not allowed in his Father’s study. Something was horribly wrong.

“Thank you.” He said, before walking as fast as he could to the grand staircase, which would take him right where he needed to go.

When he entered the room, he realized that he hadn’t been to his Father’s study since he was about 12. It was practically unchanged since that time, but seeing it again opened a tear in his heart that he’d sworn he’d stitched close. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, filled to bursting with academic texts and magical tomes alike. A green carpet embroidered with the family’s crest, a burning rose, covered a large portion of the tile floor. At the cluttered, polished mahogany desk sat his Mother, who was the only difference. She looked rather aged in the dim light of the gas lamps, all dark shadows and defined wrinkles, with silver half-moon glasses pushed up on the bridge of her nose. She’d never worn glasses like that, not until he had gotten his own pair in his teenage years. Perhaps it was an olive branch, her wearing them now.

She looked up at him from what she was reading, a paper of some importance.

“Russell,” she said, her eyes cold, “Your Father is ill.”

“With what?” His heart dropped. But why should it?

“We don’t know.” Mother stood from the desk. “He’s been sending for you for three days now. Where have you been?”

“Out.”

“That’s not an adequate answer anymore.”

Russell swallowed. “With friends.”

“What friends?”

His palms were damp with sweat. “Ambrose.”

“For three days?”

“I’m helping him decide where to go for school.”

Mother shook her head, probably tutting. “He’s a highly skilled magician for his age, and you’re helping him with school? You’ve always been a horrible liar.”

Russell stopped speaking.

“It was the Lane boy, wasn’t it?” She meant Andy. “I don’t know what you see in him.”

He knew not to talk back.

“I should’ve put an end to your meetings years ago. Not much to be done now, though.”

And yet…

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Russell said. “You repeat things you hear from others, but you’ve never actually met him, never had a full conversation with him, never spent time with him. You say the same things about my other friends, who used to be Martin’s. Where was your criticism then? Was it because of me? Because I took something from my dear brother? Mother, if you must say something about me, then just say it. I can take it. I’ve learned to.” His hands were shaking. “I had to learn because you never stood up for me, you never protected your son. It was always for someone else, wasn’t it? You never stopped any attacks for my sake, you stopped it for theirs. There was never any reprimand, so it just kept happening. You stopped caring for me when I stopped caring for magic.”

“Russell,” He read his Mother’s lips, “Don’t say these things.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” He said. “I’m not done. I never stopped caring for you, I never stopped caring about my family, but I’m starting to see that I should have. I should have a long time ago, and I’m only realizing it now because I have people who love me. People who love me for who I am, not for who I could be.”

His Mother was staring at him, a ringed hand placed over her open mouth, lip trembling behind it. It was the first time he’d ever pitied his mother.

And for the first time in his memory, he spoke.

“I’m leaving.”

He was 23 when this chapter, this prologue to his life, finally ended.

He had been pursuing his own life for five years, unofficially disowned by his family. The story the public received was that he was missing, even though he remained in the same city he’d lived in all his life. Since 18, he hadn’t received a telegram, letter, or a single penny from his family. He heard about his Father’s death from a university classmate. He’d asked for the funeral’s date as composed as he could, and let the icy hollowness within him grow when he returned to his apartment. He had walked by the cemetery in his old neighborhood the day of, dressed in black, and watched from behind the iron gates as they lowered his Father into the ground. One blond head, positioned in the middle of the procession, had turned in his direction as he began to walk away. He couldn’t tell if it was Martin or Elizabeth.

Not everything about his life was melancholy, though–It was strange, too! Five years after Ambrose had left for abroad, he’d returned with two strange friends he said he’d met in the woods. Apparently they were involved in an international crisis–one involving the coup of a neighboring country, the Queen of Erden, and a missing prince. The missing prince happened to be one of Ambrose’s new strange friends, the other being his guard. Russell didn’t even question it. It might as well be happening.

The prince, who politely introduced himself as Alaric, had come by one day asking about the city’s magical upper class. Russell brewed him a pot of coffee and told him to get comfortable. It was here he learned about Martin’s involvement with their Queen’s right hand, a pyromancer notorious for wanton cruelty. He was practically at their beck and call.

Russell had lamented to Alaric that it was always the pyromancers, and the prince had laughed, agreeing.

Now, less than a month later, he stood outside his family’s manor in the pouring rain with Andy. The gates were locked, but it wasn’t anything a simple spell couldn’t solve, Andy had said. Russell reached to stop him before he could even lift his hands, because there were plenty of anti-unlocking runes carved into the iron, which would have either exploded them both or alerted the authorities.

It only took a few minutes for him to unlock the gate with a simple hair pin. Andy whistled as he pushed it open, and the two walked in.

The manor’s dilapidated state put both men on edge. It had only been a few years, so what had happened? To see the brick walls covered in moss, parts of the roof have holes in it, and the driveway crumbling beneath him, Russell’s chest tightened. He hadn’t missed it, but it was his childhood home.

He looked at Andy, who was keeping himself perfectly dry without an umbrella, yet appeared something like a wet cat. It was his eyes, Russell figured, which were clouded with a pain derived from empathy. He was frowning in the most pathetic way one could. The rain came down harder around him.

“We don’t have to go in.” Andy said.

“You don’t,” Russell looked to the grand door, “I do.”

Andy took his right hand in his left, and turned Russell’s head back to him with his right.

“Then I do too.” Russell read his lips.

The inside was dry, despite the holes in the roof. The main foyer hadn’t been cleaned in at least a month, what with the layer of dust covering the tiled floor. There were clear footprints in this dust, some of a heeled shoe and some of a shoe that wasn’t. The heeled steps went up the grand staircase, while the un-heeled ones went to the dining room, which was just as dusty as the foyer.

The dining room, however, had a sign of life. Sitting at the head of the long wooden table, arms folded and chin tilted up, was Martin.

Seeing his little brother and Andy, he sneered.

“You’ve come crawling back?” Russell read his lips.

“We just came to ask a few questions.” Russell signed. A lie–they were here to distract him so Alaric could confront his “master” without the pressure of meeting him in a fight.

Martin laughed, which Russell guessed was a shrill, boisterous thing, judging how it wracked his thin frame. He spoke something else, a wicked grin on his face, but Russell’s eyes were drawn to the fire collecting in his right hand. Andy stepped in front of him, as if he was a flame-resistant wall.

The scent of ozone filled the room, and Russell thought it convenient he’d brought a meteormancer. He moved to the right as Andy let loose a lightning bolt, just as Martin’s fireball collided with the wall behind them. Martin jumped out of his seat to avoid it, the lightning singeing the chair cushion he had just been sitting on. His fireball, in turn, blasted rotten wood chunks over Andy, who visibly yelped, brushing the flaming debris off.

Russell ducked under the table and opened his coat. He fumbled as lightning struck and shook the floor near him, but he grasped the handle of the switchblade in his inner pocket. He poked his head out, only to see his brother and Andy lobbying spell after spell at each other from across the room. Martin was gritting his teeth, the black scarf he wore fluttering with his movement. Andy was taunting him as he tried to strike, his dimpled grin masking the probable horror he felt.

This was a stalemate, Russell realized.

So, he dived to the other side of the table and yanked Martin down by his scarf. He collapsed to the floor, kicking and yelling, with smoke coming from his hands. Russell opened the switchblade with a flick, and faster than he or Martin could register, was holding it to his brother’s neck.

Everyone froze. Martin was breathing heavily, but forcing himself to stay still. Andy stood across from the brothers, his cocky smile turning into an agape frown of sorts. Russell’s hands were shaking, and he was heaving his own breaths.

Martin raised his hands, smoke still coming from them. Andy moved to attack, but Russell shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks. His brother was going to speak.

“You would really kill me?” He asked.

Would he?

Russell faltered. Martin had tormented him for almost a decade, had aimed at him with lethal intent so many times. Now, the positions were reversed–and he couldn’t do it.

Russell was not his brother.

His shoulders slumped and thus, his knife lowered just a fraction.

A mistake. A burning hand slapped his wrist, to which he felt a scream be torn from his lungs. He dropped the knife, clamping his other hand over his burnt wrist. Tears were forced from his eyes, and he looked up at Martin, who had scrambled to stand after being released.

Russell couldn’t figure out what Martin said through his tears, but he could guess. He was probably making fun of him, calling him an idiot, or berating his magic-less state. The usual—which he’d avoided for five years. He realized then, that just because he’d left didn’t mean that the hatred stopped.

He could only cry harder.

The smell of ozone returned, stronger than earlier. Martin raised his hands in front of him, ready to fire at his brother, when Andy barreled past him, murderous intent clear on his face. In one fell swoop, he turned and raised one hand to the sky, bringing a bolt of lightning careening into the dining room. It struck Martin at full force, and Russell watched his brother fry.

Martin’s body collapsed to the ground, burnt to a crisp. Andy ducked into Russell’s field of vision, blocking the horrific sight and talking faster than he could read. His hands were on both sides of Russell’s face, which was wet with tears.

Russell let himself be pulled into a tight hug. He cried into Andy’s shoulder, and he was held there by shaky hands.

Later that month, he would watch from behind the iron gates to the cemetery as another Magus was buried. He would see Elizabeth hold their sobbing Mother, who had now lost her eldest–and as far as she was concerned, only–son and her husband within the same year. There would be a mystery around who killed his brother, and yet, he would stay put in the city that he’d lived his life in until that point. He would debate turning himself into the authorities for years, yet he would remain free. It would take him longer to realize it wasn’t his fault, that it was never his fault.

But for now, he sobbed on the floor of his family’s dining room, wishing it had ended some other way.