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His name was Alar Kint and he was not the best sorcerer there ever was. He doubted his ability to cast spells, more so because his teacher had made it a point to constantly alarm him with the futility of instructing someone as unexciting as a grazing cow.

‘You idiot!' Kotiri Swaine yelled, just as Alar came out of a fog of thick black smoke spreading across the study room, ‘How much sandalwood oil did you use?'

‘One cup, just as the book said!' Alar cried, holding up a battered spell book. Kotiri snatched the tome and flipped through the pages. His brow furrowed, and he pointed to a page.

‘Can't you read? It says one drop, One with No Eyes! One drop!' he glared at his pupil. ‘Clean up this entire mess and start over! No excuses! Skies above, why did they choose you to be my assistant? And the Council will not permit a change! Get to work, young man. If there's a bottle out of place when I return I'll scalp you!'

Kotiri stormed out of the room, and Alar almost heaved a sigh of relief. Almost.

He scrubbed the floors, and cleaned the bottles of potions and spell ingredients. He felt his chest burn with the pain and humiliation of it all. He couldn't cast spells; he had absolutely no power. It wasn't within his abilities to create a simple fireball. And individuals like him were rare, one in two million, as per the census of the land of Itika, with the powerful Council to govern it.

His job done, Alar sat on the floor. He surveyed the circular study room, within Kotiri Swaine's home. Everything gleamed, and the small fire in the grate crackled cheerfully. It was a dark evening, and thick clouds rumbled outside the only square window. Alar stretched his legs, wincing at the hardness of the wooden floor. His eyes fell on the bookshelf.

Alar sighed. How could books help, when you were born without the ability to spell cast? Itika was a land of magic. Itikan men and women were sorcerers. Some were potentially powerful. As far as he knew, Alar was the only Itikan who could never make it as a sorcerer.

He started to his feet as the door opened, expecting Kotiri Swaine. Instead, it was his wife.

Alar respected her. Samiya was small and plump, as against Kotiri's looming and lean figure. Her features were round and soft, and she exuded an air of gentle calm, quite unlike Kotiri's sharp features and quick temper.

‘Oh Alar,' she said, ‘You're here alone. Have you seen Kotiri?'

‘No,' Alar was puzzled. ‘Did he not come downstairs, Madam Samiya?'

Samiya shook her head. ‘He has not been down for some time, and I gathered he was here, with you.' She looked worried. ‘Where could he have gone? He could not have left the house, I would have known if he had done so, and this is a small house.'

‘Perhaps he is resting,' Alar suggested.

‘I have been looking for him all over the house.' Samiya was agitated now. Without another word, she quickly departed from the study room, closing the door behind her.

Thunder rolled as Alar sat down again. Rain lashed the windows, and lighting whipped through the heavens.