“Follow the key?” I muttered, but Jerald was already gone, swallowed by the tide of people rushing through last-minute preparations. The aspirants would be arriving soon.

  To my right, a band tuned their instruments, fingers plucking at lutes while voices warmed. The sound hit harder than I expected. I missed my guitar already. My gaze lingered on a polished lute for half a second too long before I forced myself to look away. If I ever had enough coin, I’d buy one.

  I drifted from the densest part of the crowd as a sweet scent rolled through the square. Workers hurried past with baskets of flowers, dressing a raised platform for what was clearly going to be an overblown ceremony.

  No thanks.

  It was too flashy for my taste, but I couldn’t deny the care behind it. Tradition lived in every ribbon, every carved post, every deliberate flourish. That part, at least, I could respect.

  What I couldn’t respect were the people who fed on it. The ones who angled their bodies just right, laughed a little too loudly, lingered where eyes would land. They drifted toward the centre like moths drawn to heat, hungry to be seen.

  The Nicks of the world.

  I turned away before the sight soured my mood.

  “Out of the way,” a worker snapped as he and two others strained under a stack of chairs. I stepped aside without comment and let the press of bodies move past. The square was filling fast. Voices rose. Space tightened.

  Too many eyes. Too much noise.

  “My cue to leave,” I muttered, easing back from the crowd. Jerald’s words surfaced, brief and precise. A house on the outskirts. No questions. Follow the key.

  I slowed once I reached a pocket of open ground and looked down at the small piece of metal resting in my palm. It felt warm. Restless. Like it disliked my hesitation.

  “So which way?” I murmured.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then the key twitched. A deliberate pull followed, firm and patient, as if something unseen had taken hold of it.

  I froze.

  “There you are,” I whispered.

  The sensation wasn’t dramatic. No jolt. No surge. Just intent. A steady pressure that pulsed every few heartbeats, guiding rather than dragging, like a thing that knew exactly where it was going.

  I watched it work, a quiet thrill curling in my chest. This was magic the way it was supposed to be. Subtle. Purposeful. No backlash. No pain. No fire crawling under my skin.

  Just a spell doing what it was made to do.

  “So that’s how it feels,” I murmured, closing my fingers around the key as the pull strengthened.

  And I followed.

  Jerald had been right. The Key knew the way.

  I let out a slow breath and moved with it as the pull angled left, away from the city walls. Relief settled deep in my gut. The last thing I needed was drifting back toward crowds and attention.

  Instead, the pressure guided me toward a line of stone buildings nestled among the hills. Quiet. Unremarkable.

  Perfect.

  “I guess we’re going that way,” I muttered.

  I wove through the thinning crowd and followed the slope down onto a dirt road. Every few steps, the key gave another gentle tug, and I obeyed without questioning it.

  Thick grass blanketed both sides of the path. Sheep dotted the hills. Cows lounged beneath broad trees scattered across the countryside. The familiar stink of livestock drifted on the breeze.

  It looked peaceful. Comfortable. The kind of place that encouraged you to relax.

  I didn’t.

  The land told on itself if you bothered to look.

  Dark patches broke up the green, scattered and irregular. Not weeds. Not rot. I slowed, crouched, and brushed one with my fingers. The grass crumbled instantly, brittle and black beneath the surface.

  Burned.

  Old, but not ancient.

  Someone had let magic run loose here.

  Not a duel. Not a battlefield. Just practice. Carelessness. Power used without regard for what it left behind.

  Jerald’s stories stirred in my mind. Warnings tucked between heroic tales. Fields ruined by a single miscast spell. Livestock driven mad. Villages learning too late where not to build.

  A weak laugh slipped out of me.

  Peaceful on the surface. Dangerous underneath.

  I straightened and continued on. The sun pressed against my back, heavy and warm. Sweat traced a line down my temple.

  The instant it touched my skin, I felt something.

  Cold flooded my spine.

  Pain flared sharp and invasive, like fire burning inward instead of out. My breath hitched. Heat and ice tangled beneath my skin, vision blurring as my knees threatened to give.

  I shut my eyes and focused on breathing.

  Slow. Controlled.

  In. Out.

  I clenched my teeth and rode it out, forcing my body to obey. The pain resisted, then grudgingly retreated, sinking back into whatever pit it crawled from.

  That was the curse.

  It struck when it pleased, stealing strength without warning. Good moments. Bad moments. Never predictable.

  Jerald always said it was why I was unnaturally frail. Why becoming an aspirant would never be easy for someone like me.

  My jaw tightened as the ache faded. Maybe fate hadn’t given me much choice, but the idea of choice was the only thing that kept me moving.

  One day, I would rip this thing out of me.

  When the shaking finally stopped, I pushed myself upright and followed the key again, letting it tug me forward like some enchanted fishing lure.

  The view opened as I walked. What I’d taken for a handful of buildings was only the edge of something larger, a settlement tucked between the hills where farmland gave way to stone.

  A wooden sign marked the outskirts.

  Brookfield.

  Cobblestones replaced dirt as I moved deeper in. The outer buildings were little more than sheds and storage, thatch sagging, paint uneven, boards warped with age. One open gap revealed stacked crates and tools.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Workspaces, not homes.

  The further I walked, the more the town changed around me.

  Rough sheds and leaning outbuildings gave way to sturdier homes with whitewashed walls, dark timber beams, and tiled roofs that caught the morning light. The shift was gradual, almost intentional, as if the town revealed its quality only to those willing to walk far enough to see it.

  A narrow, man-made canal split the settlement’s heart. Stone-lined banks guided the water through the streets, crossed by a series of small bridges. It murmured constantly nearby.

  Clean. Ordered. Maintained.

  I had wandered into the wealthier part of town.

  For a moment, I wondered if one of these houses might be mine.

  The key tugged sharply, dragging the thought away. It pulled me past every polished doorway without hesitation. Whatever Jerald had arranged, it wasn’t here.

  Markets and pubs lined the streets, doors thrown open to the warm air. People bartered, laughed, argued over prices. They moved with the easy confidence of those who knew exactly where they belonged. The town carried a rhythm, steady and practiced, like it had endured worse than poor harvests and learned how to survive them.

  Comfortable.

  Not careless.

  At the main street, the pull shifted again, angling toward the far edge of town where buildings thinned and grassy hills rose once more. The crowds loosened. Locals went about their routines without hurry.

  Ahead of me, a farmer trudged along the road, a stubborn cow plodding behind him.

  “C’mon, Lucy,” he called. “We got work ta do.”

  His accent was rough, but his voice was patient. The cow stamped a hoof, then stopped dead.

  I paused, watching the exchange. The simplicity of it grounded me.

  Life went on here. Real life.

  And if I wasn’t careful, I’d stand out in it.

  “Now what did I say about these tantrums?” the farmer scolded. “You want me leavin’ you in town again?”

  The cow answered with a deep, offended moo, then finally followed.

  As he passed, the farmer tipped his hat. “Afternoon, son.”

  “Afternoon,” I said.

  And kept walking.

  He disappeared down the street, and I continued on alone.

  The key twitched again, tugging me in a new direction. For another ten minutes I walked away from the better-kept streets and toward a cluster of low hills. The road narrowed, funnelling me between tall grass that brushed my legs. When the pull finally stopped, there was nowhere else to go.

  I’d arrived.

  The house was old. Stone, two storeys, built partly into the hillside. A neat thatched roof sat above a tiny white fence, and the garden exploded with colour. Flowers crowded every inch of soil, insects humming lazily in the warm air.

  I glanced at the sign by the gate.

  Trond Cottage.

  The latch groaned as I pushed the gate open, a tiny bell chiming in protest. I followed the swept stone path toward the door. Despite its age, the place was immaculate. Bushes trimmed. Grass cut. Not a single leaf out of place.

  I slid the key into the lock and turned it. The mechanism clicked, and the door swung inward. Warm air spilled over me, carrying a scent that felt welcoming and oddly familiar.

  “Shoes off!” a voice called from inside.

  I jumped. “Ah. Yes. Sorry.” I kicked my boots off and lined them up beside several others already waiting on a small rack.

  “Hello?” I called.

  No answer.

  I stepped inside.

  The interior was nothing like I’d expected. Thick rugs softened the stone floor, and the walls were crowded with paintings. Landscapes. Beasts. People whose eyes seemed to follow me as I moved.

  A shelf ahead held an entire collection of brown top hats.

  Every one of them was decorated.

  Some with pressed flowers. Some with stuffed rodents. One appeared to be coated in something that could only be fossilised dung.

  I stared at it for a moment. “That’s… a choice.”

  The scent of tea and toast drifted from deeper in the house, sweet and comforting.

  “Hello?” I tried again.

  “Young master! Welcome. You’re right on time.”

  Young… what?

  Something blinked into existence directly in front of me.

  I froze.

  “I… uh…” I managed.

  He tipped an equally oversized hat. “Do come in properly. You’ll want tea.”

  He stood maybe two and a half feet tall, dressed in a tidy brown suit that looked practical rather than decorative. His skin matched the fabric, his eyes and hair a deeper shade of the same earthy tone. Nothing about him felt accidental. Built. Purposeful.

  His features were a little too large for his head, but the smile he gave me as he tipped an oversized top hat was easy and genuine.

  More importantly, my body didn’t react.

  No tightening in my chest. No instinctive step backward. No warning spike of pain crawling up my spine.

  That alone told me something.

  “Hi,” I said, then stalled. “Um. What… I mean. Who are you?”

  He chuckled, light and unbothered. “Name’s Doyle. And what I am is a Brownie.”

  Jerald’s notes surfaced without effort. House spirits. A Bugbear. Bound to places, not people. Loyal if respected. Dangerous if crossed.

  “A Brownie,” I said, nodding slowly as it clicked. Not human. Not cursed. But touching the same layer of the world that had twisted me. Different source. Different rules.

  I offered a careful smile. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Not sir,” he said brightly. “Just Doyle.”

  “Right. Doyle.” I hesitated. “My name’s—”

  “Sean.”

  He bowed so deeply his hat nearly slid off. “He told me all about you.”

  My shoulders tensed before I could stop them.

  Spirits noticed things people missed. If Doyle knew about me, then he wasn’t just seeing the surface. He was seeing whatever sat underneath it too.

  “Jerald,” I said.

  “Who else.”

  Some of the tension eased. Not all of it.

  “Will he be staying here?” I asked.

  Doyle’s smile softened. “Afraid not. Not for a while.” He studied me, then added, “But you should be safe here. Like the others.”

  “Others.”

  He nodded. “Two more potential aspirants live here. You’ll meet them soon.”

  That caught me off guard. Not unwelcome. Just unexpected.

  “However,” Doyle added lightly, adjusting his hat, “it would be best if you kept your little curse situation quiet.”

  My smile thinned. So, Jerald did tell him everything.

  “I was planning on it.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t as if I planned on spilling my secrets to the others.

  “Good lad. Best if you were,” he paused, tapping his chin, “how shall I put it.”

  He snapped his fingers and vanished.

  I flinched, eyes darting around the room.

  “Invisible,” his voice added cheerfully.

  The Bugbear Spirit reappeared through a nearby doorway, entirely unconcerned. “Come, come. I have prepared tea.”

  I hesitated, then followed. The scent of toast grew stronger as we stepped into a wide kitchen.

  Doyle bounced from bench to bench, and somewhere between steps a white apron appeared around his waist. A plate blinked into existence, and he tossed a slice of toast onto it with practiced ease. Behind him stood what could only be described as a shrine to jam, shelves stacked with neatly ordered jars in every shade of red and gold.

  “George, one of the local farmers, delivered fresh butter this morning,” Doyle said proudly.

  “The one I saw arguing with a cow,” I asked.

  “Possibly,” Doyle replied, amused.

  “The cow was called Lucy.”

  “Ah.” He clapped his hands. “That’s the fellow. Good man.” His expression soured slightly. “The cow, however, is an absolute melodramatic diva.”

  I smiled as I sat down, reaching for the plate.

  “Tea ready, Doyle?” a voice called from the hall.

  A skinny blonde girl burst into the room and dropped into the chair across from me, barely sparing me a glance. Her attention locked onto the toast like it was the most important thing in the world.

  “Great,” she said, grabbing a slice and piling it with butter and jam.

  She shoved half of it into her mouth before attempting, with impressive confidence, “Fhhu ah oo.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What.”

  She swallowed hard, grabbed her tea to wash it down, and immediately regretted it. Her eyes widened as the scalding liquid hit her mouth. She coughed, gargled, and somehow forced the entire mouthful down before slamming the cup onto the table.

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  Then, finally, she looked at me.

  The sight was impressive, if a little alarming. I wasn’t sure how someone that skinny could put away so much food so quickly.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finally looked at me. “So, who are you?”

  Doyle stepped neatly between us and pointed. “Sean, Amelia. Amelia, Sean.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hey.” She smiled sweetly, then immediately returned to her toast, confirming that yes, it was far more important than the new arrival.

  I smiled despite myself. Strange girl. But she seemed harmless enough.

  “Amelia will be staying here for the time being,” Doyle said. “Until the trials.”

  I nodded. Jerald had been clear about that part. Passing the trials was not just about becoming an aspirant. It came with privileges. Recognition. The freedom to move through the city without attracting the wrong kind of attention.

  “The Trials of the Aspirants,” I said quietly. “Access to the city without escorts or questions.”

  Doyle’s eyes sharpened for a brief moment before his smile returned. “Exactly. Those who pass are registered. Legitimate. No guards stopping you every few streets. No inspections unless you earn them.”

  That mattered more than any title.

  With free movement, I could blend in. Walk the city openly. Follow leads without dragging a tail behind me. If Jerald needed someone inside the walls, that made things easier.

  “For those without sponsorship,” Doyle continued, “the trials are the only legal path in. Perform well enough and one of the three schools may claim you. Even if they don’t, passing still grants clearance.”

  Across the table, Amelia nodded enthusiastically while loading two more slices of toast.

  “For now,” Doyle added, “she has been pushing her blessings hard enough to qualify.”

  Amelia shot me a quick look, something fierce flashing behind her eyes, then shoved more toast into her mouth as if effort alone might make the time pass faster.

  “How long until they begin?” I asked.

  She swallowed and grinned. “Two months. Which means we all need to get a lot stronger.”

  Two months.

  Enough time to prepare. Enough time to stay unnoticed. And if things went right, enough time to earn lawful passage into the city instead of skirting its edges.

  Becoming an aspirant had always been part of the plan. Fewer questions. Fewer eyes. Room to breathe.

  And once I was inside, I could finally start pulling this curse apart piece by piece.

  “The trials are held in the city,” I said.

  Doyle hesitated, only a fraction, then nodded. “They are.”

  I let that sink in. Whatever Jerald had planned, it meant moving forward. Getting stronger. Blending in. Maybe even claiming one of the blessings everyone here treated like salvation.

  Doyle seemed to sense the weight settling on me.

  “Sean,” he said brightly, “would you care for a tour of the house. Or perhaps some toast first.”

  I glanced at the growing pile and the girl already reaching for more.

  “A tour sounds safer,” I said.

  Doyle grinned.