As soon as breakfast was done, the house didn’t settle back into its usual Monday quiet. It stayed wakeful—doors half-ajar, boards creaking as servants hurried past, and Martha lingering where she oughtn’t—same as ever—listening for scraps she could carry later with her sharp tongue.

  Lucian’s pouch sat heavy at his waist. His little drawing book was crammed inside beside Father’s penknife and the thick sealed letter from Grovewell’s Primordium—proof enough he hadn’t dreamt it. A secret school in a world set apart, built on spoken threats and magic. The memory of Hewitt and Barlow’s words still swirled in his head—dark and uncanny—much like that chamber of black marble. His thoughts didn’t ease, no matter how neat his doublet lay or how straight Auntie had pulled his collar.

  Now they stood in the manor’s front garden—the whole family together—their best still decent enough for the King’s men. The grass lay dark with dew, and the summer morning air still held that cold, clean tang left over from the night. Roses along the walk wore beads of water on every thorn, and the clipped hedges looked too neat for what was about to happen.

  Mother waited near the steps with Auntie at her shoulder. Tess hovered by the window-side, red shawl round her shoulders, picking petals from roses. Lukey gawped behind his spectacles at the mounted guards in heavy coats, their long muskets held easy as walking sticks. Lyddie leaned in close to Lawrie, trading whispers that made them snicker—their eyes fixed on one tall guard, with broad shoulders and a set jaw, astride his horse.

  Lewis lingered near the coaches, patting the horses’ long necks, mouth tight as if he’d bitten down on a sour thought. He hadn’t shot Lucian his usual sharp glares all morning—only those quiet looks, sad and longing, like he wanted something he couldn’t have.

  Father’s voice carried—unusually bright and pleased—but it didn’t match the dark circles that had lived under his eyes for weeks. He stood a little apart, speaking with Mr Barlow about the biggest wool bargain he’d struck yet, with a gentry family from York. Uncle Fletcher’s carter had only yesterday made his way to the Birches’ warehouse—one of Father’s oldest friends in trade.

  Mr Barlow didn’t look impressed in the least, and at the mention of York, something in his face shifted, quick as a shadow. The junior clerk, Mr Allerton—thin as a rake—looked bored, yet his hungry eyes kept cutting back at Lucian, watching even his smallest movements. It set a queer itch along the back of the neck.

  The coachman called out—ready to depart.

  Lawrie and Lewis were to show the King’s men the Daiwik Wool Mill on the south bank of the River Aire, just downriver of Briggate Bridge.

  And Temple Newsam visit fell to ‘Master’ Hewitt—already inside the coach—doing something strange, for quick flashes of light slipped through the shut window gaps and the door’s edge, bright as a struck flint.

  Nobody else seemed to mark it.

  So this was it, then—Lucian thought.

  The Daiwik’s youngest twins. The new apprentices as the King’s surveyors at Temple Newsam—Father’s highest pride yet.

  At His Majesty’s Northern Mathematical Academy—only it wasn’t, not truly.

  Mr Barlow had called it a harmless pretence. Still… a place with the King’s name on it ought to be full of grim men with ledgers and wooden rulers—ready to rap the daft out of them.

  That thought was worse than black cats on steps, worse than old women with broomsticks and warty noses, and worse even than bats hanging in the rafters.

  And worse than that: Father was going with them. Lucian couldn’t fathom how they were to see anything magical with Father so near—especially after Mr Barlow’s threats about secrecy and vigilance.

  After much fussing—and farewell kisses from Auntie and Mother—they were ushered into the coach. Father sat beside Master Hewitt, while Leon sat facing the fair man. And then they were off, rocking as the wheels ground over stone, rolling out through the gate towards Temple Newsam—leaving the dew-dark grass, the watchful faces, and the manor’s neat hedges behind, as if none of it belonged to them anymore.

  ‘Enjoy the view, lads,’ Hewitt said with his broad smile, nodding towards the little sash window. ‘We’ll draw the shutters once we’re on the main road—then you can speak free enough.’

  If Father thought the remark strange, he kept it to himself but fell quick into talk with Hewitt all the same, while Lucian and Leon kept quiet—no words came easy with Lucian’s nerves sitting tight in his throat. He leaned towards the small square of glass. Early light came thin through the hedgerows, breaking into pale strips as the coach jolted along the Whitkirk road—field stiles and stone walls sliding past in pieces. His eyes stung with the dull ache of leaving home behind, even if it was only for a visit.

  Soon enough, the shutters slid shut of their own accord.

  Opposite Lucian, Father sat up very straight, one gloved hand resting upon his knee. He blinked, as though dust had caught his eye—then his face broke into a broad, easy smile.

  ‘Fine morning for it,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘Perfect to mend losses with a good hand. And good ale too, see?’

  ‘Surely do,’ Hewitt said, and Father nodded, satisfied. A heartbeat later, his head tipped back against the cushion, and his eyes drifted half-shut.

  Lucian traded a quick glance with Leon.

  ‘No need to fret, lads. Nowt but a simple Nullkin Bewilderment Charm,’ Hewitt said, then drew his wand from his coat and tipped it gently towards the coach rails. Strange marks started to glow faintly in a ring along the wood up to the ceiling—similar to those on the Sage’s forearms. ‘So long as it holds, he’ll be half-caught in a dream, yet still present. I cast it before we set off. Now then, your letters. You can—Lucian? What’s the matter, lad?’

  ‘I can feel it,’ Lucian said, looking round.

  Leon’s head snapped towards him. ‘What?’

  ‘The magic, I reckon. It’s… it’s like—’ Lucian swallowed, then looked at the Sage. ‘It’s like you. Like you’re sat just behind my shoulder.’

  Sage Hewitt’s brows lifted. ‘Interesting, that. And you, Leonard—can you sense it and all?’

  Leon stared down at his hands. ‘I can’t.’

  The fair man nodded once and his head turned to Lucian.

  ‘You’ve got the sight, lad. Mayhap it’s one of your gifts, being seventh of a seventh. Your nimbus is strong—stronger still within your own household. Leonard’s, on the other hand, is muffled by yours—faint, but there, mind.’

  ‘S-sir… may I ask what’s a nimbus?’

  ‘Much the same as a magus’ presence,’ Hewitt said. ‘Only unseen—save with a revelation spell. A brightness that emanates from the soul. Yours are very alike; it seems you share the same—though… you, Lucian, are carrying the greater part of it.’

  Leon’s frown deepened.

  ‘What—why?’

  ‘I don’t know, not yet.’

  ‘D’you know why can’t I do tricks like Luce does?’

  Sage Hewitt’s gaze moved between them a moment, as though he watched the air itself.

  ‘Both of your nimbi… they’re… well…’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘It’s rare, but plain enough to them as can read it. You share a nimbus—the same one.’

  ‘What? I don’t even own my own magic, then?’ Leon’s glare snapped to Lucian, like it were Lucian’s doing. ‘He’s taking all o’ mine?’

  ‘I don’t reckon so, lad,’ Hewitt said, calm as ever. ‘Magic’s never so tidy. The fact you carry a spark at all—small as it is—is a wonder.’

  Leon’s face drooped. ‘Splendid. I knew it,’ he said, and the wonder in his eyes seemed to drain away. ‘I knew I don’t belong in Grovewell.’

  ‘Nay, Leon. Don’t be daft…’ Lucian began, but Leon only shrugged and turned his head towards the small shuttered window.

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  Lucian looked down—guilt turned his stomach. Leon was seldom the one to turn sour over anything, but when he did, he’d doubt even his own place in the world—best to pull him back before he went too far down that road.

  ‘Can’t Leon use my nimbus, then?’ Lucian said, forcing the question out. ‘Borrow some of this spark? We do share the same, as you said.’

  The sage shook his head.

  ‘It doesn’t work so, lads. See—magic’s not a trick you shout at the air. It’s words—spoken and written—that change reality itself.’ He tipped his chin towards the runes along the rail, letting the glow speak for itself.

  ‘Do you lads know what “abracadabra” truly means?’

  ‘A witch’s word, isn’t it?’ Leon’s answer came quick—his interest seemed to flare despite everything. ‘They write it in triangles to ward off fevers. Auntie always says it.’

  ‘Nay,’ Hewitt said, with a smile. ‘Nullkins keep the husk of it, but not the heart. It comes from our Saviour’s own tongues—Hebrew and Aramaic—avra ke-davra. “I create as I speak.” That’s why it’s called a spell: you spell out your will into being with words—Casting Words, we call ’em. Most oft in Latin. Runes lend the spell its strength and tell it how to behave. You’ve to learn both before you can govern your nimbus—before your spark knows how to shine for you. Leonard’s may be dormant yet… or simply too new to burn bright.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Leon. ‘We don’t share the same spark, then?’

  ‘For the present, it’s theory—nowt more,’ Hewitt said. ‘We oughtn’t rule it out, mind.’

  Lucian let himself smile at Leon, just a little—there was hope for him after all. And Leon, after a moment, gave a faint smile back.

  Father’s head bobbed once as the coach crunched over loose pebbles, and the sage leaned back as if the matter were settled, then he smiled broadly.

  ‘Well then—what’re you waiting for? You may open your letters now. Go on.’

  That seemed to lift Leon—he smiled and rummaged in his satchel straightaway. Lucian drew out his own sealed letter. Grovewell’s green wax sat smooth upon it—and the instant his finger touched the seal, it gave a faint crack, like ice giving way on a pond’s edge.

  The letter loosened in his hand and unfurled into a long strip of parchment. From within slid a narrow slip, covered in tight little scratches. It wasn’t metal, yet its surface shone golden, catching the light with the same strange gleam Lucian had marked on the cover of Mr Barlow’s pocketbook.

  He leaned towards Leon. His brother’s golden slip bore the same sort of markings—etched with symbols Lucian couldn’t read. At the top sat a great circle scored with crisscrossed lines, and at its centre, one single rune. Beneath it lay three smaller runes, each ringed. Below those ran five neat stamps, set above tidy rows of Latin script.

  Lucian couldn’t make sense of any of it.

  ‘Velum Noctis,’ Lucian read out, pointing at a neat drawing of a ribbon—the words stamped in dark golden letters near the bottom.

  ‘Latin, isn’t it?’ Leon said, eager as anything. ‘What’s it mean, then?’

  ‘The Veil of Night,’ Hewitt said, his voice turning instructive—like Reverend Ainsworth when he’s teaching. ‘A strong glamour, bound into these spelltags, for cloaking, protection, and disguise. No soul with ill intent ought to lay a hand on you. Not within Grovewell nor without.

  Lucian’s eyes ran over the parchment again. The writing was neat in dark ink, the strokes old-fashioned—too perfect to have been set down by any ordinary hand. At the top stood the heading:

  GROVEWELL PRIMORDIUM

  Temple Newsam, Yorkshire

  To Master Lucian Daiwik

  You are received as a Novice Magus of Grovewell Primordium for Year the First, comprising Term I (from 1 August 1668) and Term II (from 1 February 1669).

  You are invited for a visit to the Grovewell Planisvicis to be conducted under the care of your appointed Sage: Sage James Hewitt, Pyralux Fons.

  For the proper ordering of your studies, each Novice must obtain the following items before the beginning of Term I or during the first week of said term. Magical items are not to be taken out of Grovewell.

  UNIFORM & ROBES

  A set of plain runic robes, undyed grey wool.

  One plain runic Spirecrown.

  One pair of runic stout leather shoes.

  One pair of runic protective gloves.

  One runic linen shirt for Sunday service.

  INSTRUMENTS

  One leather magus strap.

  One small pewter inkpot and two goose quills.

  One enchanted sandglass or small hourglass.

  One folding rule of wood or brass and one common slate.

  FIRST YEAR BOOKS

  Each Novice must have one copy of the following volumes:

  Rudiments of the Spell-Tongues, Book I

  A Novice’s Guide to Magic, Book I

  On Elemental Runic Script

  Combat Magic and Contraspells, Book I

  Of Corrupt Spells and Their Unmaking

  The Cantor’s Primer, Book I

  First Light and Oldest Darkness, Book I

  Ferae et Florae Magicae of Albion

  MUNDANE ARTICLES

  One small Bible (authorised translation), plainly bound.

  Three changes of linen.

  No more than five personal trinkets.

  Each Novice shall receive:

  A Primordium Sigil – a small badge of Grovewell, to be worn upon the robe.

  A Wellarci Spelltag – a silver spelltag, granting safe entry to certain Wellarcus inside Grovewell.

  By command of the Concordium of Grovewell.

  Archsage Arin Sorrell.

  Lucian read every line three times, pausing on the unfamiliar words. His finger stopped at First Light and Oldest Darkness, and he wondered what it truly meant. Beside him, Leon let out a low whistle.

  ‘Look at this,’ Leon said, tapping the list. ‘“Combat Magic and Contraspells.” We’ll be trained in combat. Soldiers—just like Father was. Sounds better than Reverend’s grammar drills.’

  Lucian frowned. ‘That sounds dangerous… why do we have to learn combat?’

  ‘Casting’s no easy thing, lads—and combat magic’s harder still.’ Sage Hewitt clasped his hands and leaned forward. ‘Knowing how to deflect and shield yourself is the first knowledge a magus ought to have, mind. If I were to lay a hex at you from behind a tree, how’d you stop it? How’d you even mark I was there, doing it? Magic draws danger—true enough. And the dangers of it are many. Best you learn to fight—best you get good at it, too.’

  Something sat behind his concern—something in his eyes that had become too familiar to Lucian these past weeks.

  Secrecy.

  ‘Sage Hewitt,’ Lucian said, choosing his words carefully, ‘is there truly no danger from the presence lingering in the grounds of our estate?’

  Sage Hewitt’s face fell a little, and Lucian marked it—He was holding something back.

  ‘Well, lads… of late…’ Hewitt drew a slow breath. ‘To speak plain, there’s a great deal I can’t tell you. But I can tell you this—the talk running through the Wells is true.’

  ‘What talk, sir?’ Lucian asked.

  ‘You’ll hear it soon enough, and I’d sooner ease your minds now,’ Hewitt said. ‘Corrupt magic’s stirring up again. Gone it was, or at least hiding for over a century. Folk have marked its return already—plain as owt.’

  Leon’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s corrupt magic?’

  ‘It’s…’ The sage’s jaw tightened. ‘Aye—blast it. I told Barlow to let me set it plain for you, from first… and he wouldn’t have it.’ He looked from one twin to the other. ‘Well—I’ll do it all the same. What I may, mind. Most of it sits above my place to speak on—Wellsage matters. But I can warn you, at least that.’

  His voice went darker.

  ‘In the years before the witch-hunts, a magus turned the Art to theft, to slaughter, to ruin—both primordial forces, Light and Dark alike, bent into evil.’

  ‘Who?’ Leon said. ‘Do we know them?’

  ‘Reckon not, lad. Rayslend Isaac—his name was.’

  ‘That’s who’s after us, then?’

  ‘Can’t be. He can’t be,’ Hewitt said, shaking his head. ‘Six centuries gone, and dust besides. But he’s known…’ His gaze drifted a little, as if something stood behind them in the coach. ‘Known even now. He sought beings no man ought to seek—spirits best left uncalled, from realms beyond this one—hungry for power, he was, see? And he taught others too. Foul craft. The foulest kind of magic.’ He lifted a finger. ‘Evil… but powerful. Powerful enough to do feats no magus had marked before—mind that well.’

  ‘What sort of feats, sir?’ Leon said, sitting on the edge of the seat, near unblinking.

  ‘Ones you’d not wish named over stew. Dark acts. Evil ones. Magi came to call those arts corrupted magic, and Nullkins marked the scars it left—altars and ritual places, stained with blood and bone. Then came the first witch-hunts, and fear spread fast through the country. Witch-talk. Dark bargains. Blood curses. Bone rites.’

  ‘So that’s what corrupt magic is, then?’

  ‘Aye,’ Hewitt said. ‘Bone and blood magic—arts so foul they sour soil, body, and soul. And yet it didn’t touch him as it should, mind. Made him dangerous, very.’

  A chill ran down Lucian’s spine, and deep inside him the cold and the warmth both tugged—like two hands pulling at the same cloth.

  ‘Is that what’s about our estate, then?’ Leon shot a glance at Lucian, eyes wide. ‘Bone and blood magic?’

  ‘It seems so, lad,’ Hewitt said, and frustration roughened his tone. ‘There’s mild hexes and little spellwork scattered round your grounds, with no clear pattern. We’ve found traces of blood and bone craft—scarce, but clear enough for Allerton to mark. He’ll keep seeking the source—and keep you and your kin safe.’

  Lucian’s fingertips prickled—one hand going ice-cold, the other burning. A faint glow kindled at the edge of his nails. He shoved both hands under his thighs and balled them into fists until his nails bit his palms.

  ‘Sage Hewitt,’ Lucian finally spoke, ‘what exactly is Mr Allerton? You told us he’s not like other men, and—’

  From far off, church bells began to strike.

  Hewitt tipped his head, listening, then nodded once. ‘Quarter past eight. We’re arriving.’ His gaze dropped to Lucian’s golden slip, which had fallen near his boot. ‘Fetch that, lad—and don’t lose your spelltags. Protection they are, as well as coin.’

  Lucian snatched it up in a hurry—his hands numb, but back to normal.

  ‘I’ll open the windows now,’ Hewitt went on. ‘Your father’ll stay here, asleep and waiting for you.’

  ‘Why can’t he come along?’ Lucian asked.

  ‘’Cause Nullkins aren’t allowed inside the Wells, lad—I’m afraid,’ Hewitt said.

  The sage waved his wand once, and the sashes slid down of their own accord. The faint glow along the rails dulled, then went out. Father’s eyes stayed unfocused, as if he were still staring at something pleasant that was not there.

  Leon hurried, rolling his letter tight and cramming it—spelltag and all—into his satchel. Lucian did the same, heart thudding hard.

  Leon was grinning now, the wonder back—plain in his eyes. That was it, then—a glimpse of their new life, away from home.

  Lucian knew there’d be no escaping it.

  No way out.

  Not anymore.

  There never truly had been—Mr Barlow had made sure of that.

  And still, despite the fret twisting in his belly, Lucian’s curiosity about this hidden world burnt bright—like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Day.

  An entire city, hidden in the small woods of Temple Newsam.

  It sounded impossible.

  It was impossible.

  And yet it was real enough to drag him and his twin along with it.

  If magic could hide a whole city from sight…

  …what else could it do?

  "Inciting Incident".

  I separated the "Inciting Incident" into three parts: 1. The Call of Adventure [Chapters 3 & 4]; 2. Refusal of the Call [Chapter 5]; 3. Meeting the Mentor [Chapter 6].

  “Inciting Incident”. Something happens that rocks the hero’s world: the first idea of leaving what is comfortable and venturing into the unknown.

  Chapter 5 is under the "Inciting Incident" -> "Refusal of the Call"