"Starting today, you will attend the courses of the Wyrmlithus Academy of Magic," said the dean, seated at the desk in front of me.
I looked around in astonishment, trying to understand what was happening. I was in a spacious room, decorated in Roman style, with white marble columns supporting a high ceiling, elaborate frescoes on the walls, and a massive mahogany desk. I had no idea how I'd ended up here. Just moments ago, I was strolling through a park in Boston when, without any warning, I felt myself losing balance and falling backward. The next instant, I woke up in this strange office that looked more like a museum hall.
Was I dreaming? I pinched my arm, but the sharp pain made me doubt it. Or maybe I wasn't dreaming at all—I took the thought one step further. Perhaps I had fallen in the park and was now in a coma, lying in a Boston hospital bed while my mind was trapped in a whirlpool of hallucinations, unable to communicate with the outside world. I looked carefully at the dean again. Dressed in an imposing toga, he looked exactly like an actor from a Shakespearean play about Ancient Rome.
"Excuse me, sir... dean, but I don't recall applying to any school of magic. I go to a regular school, where there's nothing remotely magical."
What struck me as extremely strange was that I could speak the language used at the Academy perfectly—it seemed like some variant of Latin, as far as I could tell. Then again, if this was a dream, everything made perfect sense. In dreams, any absurdity is possible.
"That's irrelevant," he replied, sounding irritated. "Your parents were mages, and that is enough. In case you didn't know, all children of mages are automatically enrolled in a School of Magic and are summoned by spell when they reach the proper age."
The dean had touched on a sore subject. I didn't know much about my parents, other than the fact that they had both died in a car accident when I was very young. I had been raised by an aunt. In any case, I was fairly certain my parents had nothing to do with magic. In fact, I was convinced that magic didn't exist—or at best, was just a form of entertainment.
It was time to settle the matter once and for all.
"Mr. Dean, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I don't believe in magic. Do you understand? I don't know what your Academy is all about, but as far as I'm concerned, magic isn't real. I'm not talking about tricksters or con artists who pretend to perform magic just to scam people. I mean real magic—phenomena that science cannot explain. And since I've never seen any such thing with my own eyes, if you don't mind, I'd like to leave and go home as soon as possible."
The dean let out a soft chuckle before replying.
"Aha, so we've got a skeptic. No surprise—you grew up in the Opposite World. There's very little magic there. But no matter. We'll fix that right away. You'll be convinced soon enough—personally. Martulus, give the young man a correction."
From a jar on his desk, a thin greenish wisp of smoke rose and shot toward me, swirling around me. I instantly felt a horrible stinging sensation on my back, as if I were being whipped with fresh nettles.
That's when I became convinced I wasn't dreaming. The pain was far too real and intense to be endured by someone asleep. But the other theory—that I was in a coma—still held water. Seeing my suffering, the dean made a small gesture with his hand, and the greenish wisp retreated into the jar. I wasn't entirely convinced that magic existed, but at the very least, I had proof that something inexplicable was going on.
"Martulus is a forest demon. I use him when I need to discipline unruly students. I hope you're now convinced that magic exists. If not, I can ask the demon to give you another correction. What do you say?"
"No, sir, absolutely not," I said quickly. "No further demonstrations needed. If you say magic is real, then it must be. What should I do next?"
The Dean took out a scroll of parchment and unrolled it carefully.
"As for your situation, you will attend the Wyrmlithus Academy of Magic and must pass the annual examination to remain here. You will study a variety of magical disciplines, from Elemental Magic and Summoning to Protective Spells and Ancient Languages. Each course is essential for your development as a mage."
Skepticism returned to me, stronger than before. So, no mathematics, literature, geography, or other sciences taught in normal schools. I found it hard to believe I could learn the strange subjects the dean had mentioned.
"And what happens if I fail the first-year exam?"
"You'd better not think about that, young man. If you show no aptitude for magic, it means you're a non-mage and will be expelled from the Academy. You will be sold as a slave in the grand market of Atrolos, the capital of our kingdom."
Quite a grim prospect, I thought. Even if all of this were just a hallucination.
"Couldn't I just be sent back to the world I came from? The Opposite World, as you call it? I have the feeling I don't possess any magical talent."
My timid suggestion irritated the dean.
"Absolutely not! You come from a family of mages, and you are bound to follow your destiny by studying at Wyrmlithus Academy. You cannot refuse the honor being bestowed upon you. Why wouldn't you want to become a mage? Remember, in our society, non-mags become slaves or serfs. Is that what you want to be?"
He paused briefly and took a sip from the glass on his desk, filled with a liquid resembling whiskey.
"And if we do send you into slavery, we'll erase your memory first, so you can't betray the secrets you've learned here. You should know, young man," he grinned, "that memory spells aren't exactly harmless—they might significantly reduce your mental abilities."
So that was it! A magical version of Alzheimer's awaited me if I refused the "honor" of studying at Wyrmlithus Academy.
"I still don't understand how I got here. I grew up in another world, and now I suddenly find myself in this office."
The Dean tapped his hand on the scroll lying on the desk.
"By magic, of course. Shortly after you were born, your parents cast a binding spell that was meant to bring you into our world when you reached the appropriate age to study magic. I don't know the details of their spell. Bringing someone from the Opposite World is extremely difficult. Your parents must have been very powerful mages to manage to cross between worlds. The same spell also allowed you to understand and speak our language."
The Dean took a few more sips from his amber-colored drink, then continued his explanation.
"If they hadn't died, your parents would have given you all the details and prepared you in time for life at the Academy. But as it stands, their spell caught you by surprise and brought you here with no knowledge of our world. And don't ask me to send you back—I couldn't even if I wanted to. Only a handful of mages have the power to travel between worlds."
I shrugged as I looked around the room. Behind the Dean stood a bookcase filled with scrolls and old books. Each corner of the room was occupied by a white marble pedestal, upon which stood a statuette with outstretched arms. They appeared to be statues of ancient goddesses, though I couldn't make out the details from where I sat.
Fine, I told myself. Maybe a magic academy wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Maybe—without knowing it—I really was a mage, and I was about to discover my true destiny in this strange place I'd never heard of before.
Eagerly, the Dean continued:
"Now let's move on to the most important matter. In addition to the exam, you'll need to pay the annual tuition fee. For the first year, it's 5,000 sesterces, but the amount increases in the following years. When do you intend to pay it?"
Not only did I not have a single sesterce, but I didn't even know what a sesterce was. I guessed it was some kind of local currency. I tried to protest, but the Dean silenced me with a brief gesture.
"I fully understand your special circumstances, so I'll allow you to pay the fee at the end of the school year. However, there is one condition," he continued. "A penalty of 1,000 sesterces will be added to the initial amount. Therefore, you will owe 6,000 sesterces instead of 5,000. Sign here to agree to the new terms."
He handed me the scroll and a quill, showing me where to sign. I shrugged and signed. I almost felt like laughing at the absurdity of the situation. If I didn't have a single sesterce, what difference did it make if I owed 6,000 instead of 5,000? I hoped with all my heart that I would wake up from whatever coma I imagined myself to be in.
After I signed, the Dean seemed more agreeable.
"I regret that you have to adapt to the situation on the fly, with no preparation, but there's nothing I can do. You're well past the age at which students normally begin their training.
Rufus, take the young man to his room in the south wing of the Academy."
Rufus, a tall man with a stern face, led me through a labyrinth of dark corridors and steep staircases until we reached a heavy wooden door. He opened it, and I glanced into my new room—and shuddered: it looked more like a medieval dungeon than a student's quarters. Seeing me hesitate, the caretaker gave me a gentle push from behind.
Once inside, I was met with a strong smell of dry dust.
The room was austere and completely devoid of comfort. The only pieces of furniture were a simple wooden bed, a small table, and an old chair, all placed on a cold stone floor. The bed, covered with a thin, worn blanket, looked more like a wooden stretcher than a place to rest. The table's surface was scratched and stained, clear signs that it had been used by many before me. The chair, with its rickety legs, seemed ready to collapse under the weight of anyone who dared sit on it.
The walls were thick and cold, built from raw stone with no decorations or paint. The only window in the room—large and dusty—was set into one of the walls, offering a direct view of a vast, arid desert. The golden sand stretched as far as the eye could see under a pale blue sky, and the sun's heat and light filtered timidly into the room, bringing with them a sense of desolation and loneliness.
The air inside was dry and dusty, and each breath felt like it scraped your throat. In the corners, a fine layer of sand had gathered, likely brought in by the strong winds that constantly whipped across the desert.
"You can't walk around the Academy dressed like that," the caretaker said, handing me a bundle of dull gray clothes, extremely worn. "You need a uniform."
"Do all students dress like this?" I asked, unable to believe that such a prestigious school of magic would let its students wander around dressed like beggars.
"Of course not," the caretaker cut me off. "These uniforms are only for those who haven't paid their tuition. Makes it easier to tell them apart from the rest. Once you pay your study fee, you'll be entitled to a proper uniform, one made to fit. Not for free, of course," he added pointedly. "It'll cost you another 300 sesterces on top of the fee."
I took off my own clothes and put on the gray uniform. As expected, it was too tight. The fabric at the elbows was worn through, and in some places the tunic had been clumsily mended by its previous owner.
I carefully folded my old clothes into a bundle and laid them on the edge of the bed. I was sure I'd need them again soon. I kept my boots on, though. They were extremely comfortable, and I wouldn't have traded them even for a pair of enchanted slippers.
"They belonged to a student who died," the caretaker added.
The unexpected news hit me hard, but I had no choice. I had to accept the worn-out clothes if I wanted to be part of the Academy.
"What did he die from?" I asked. "Hopefully not some contagious disease."
"Not at all," the caretaker grinned. "Suicide. And now, let's go to class."