The servant boy and Osric’s apprentice, Oliander, most often just called Oli, coaxed a fire to life within the heart of Osric’s study. It was a matter of habit and routine. The old wizard taught with far more patience once the chill of winter had been drawn from his bones.

  The bread and elk sat untouched on the lone table at the far end of the room. A construction of oak and steel, it was large enough to host Osric’s experiments, and just as often served as a place for Oli to read.

  Oli stared into the flames as they swallowed the kindling and logs. In the year and a half since the wizard pulled him off the streets, he had never seen Osric shaken.

  The wizard hid it well. The calm and collected nature of the man carried as strong a reputation as the magic and miracles attributed to him. Not even during the civil strife among the nobles. A hired brigade of mercenaries storming the courts and strong-arming the king. Osric hadn’t so much as flinched.

  Shree. Thump. Slam.

  The wizard burst into the study and barred the door. At once, he scurried to the wall of cabinets and drawers, tossing herbs and irreplaceable tools into a sack. Alchemical essentials. Remedies for common ailments, healing salves, and, judging by what Oli could recognize, a selection of poisons.

  “Master Osric?” Oli said. “I’ve gathered what you asked for. It’s on the table.”

  Osric paused. One hand hovered in a drawer, the other buried in the travel sack. Countless thoughts and calculations collided behind his eyes, jostling for room before words could form.

  “Ah, right. Yes. Oli. Thank you,” he said at last, resuming his frantic task.

  “Tell me, I’ve only ever spoken truth with you, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Oli nodded. “Yes, master Osric.”

  “Good.” Osric moved to a section of wall disguised by brickwork, its runes dulled and inert. He worked the hidden mechanisms with care, ensuring Oli couldn’t see what he retrieved. “Then if I told you that marionette in the court was death and doom incarnate, you would know it to be true.”

  “The doll?” Oli asked, disbelief slipping into his voice.

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  Osric froze. He spun around and leaned across the table, locking eyes with the boy.

  “You listen to me and you listen well. That thing is from a time when evil itself first slithered into this world. There are few left across these lands know the language etched into that box.” His voice lowered. “Any wizard worth their salt knows it.”

  Oli drew his hands beneath the table, unable to hide their trembling. Osric looked wild, unhinged, but the severity of his gaze could have stolen the roar from an angry lion.

  “It is the Fool King’s Gift,” Osric said. “All who receive it lose everything. Their name, their life, everything! To see it before you, means but one, wretched and irreversible fate. None knows where it comes from or how it arrives. It brings only horror and death.”

  He turned away and resumed packing.

  “There is nothing to be done but run from the Chuckle Grim. And that is exactly what I intend.”

  Oli glanced at the food he’d gathered from the kitchens. “You mean to flee?” he asked. “What of our oaths? Our duty to the king and kingdom? Master Osric, this is dishonorable. We would be flogged. Hung!”

  “Dishonorable?” Osric barked a laugh, brittle and hollow. “Boy, what use is honor among the dead? Who will you serve in an empty castle?”

  A delirious chuckle rattled loose from his lungs.

  “All who walk these halls will be dead. Or worse. By tomorrow’s moon. You are a clever lad. Don’t let the facade of honor steal your future.”

  Oli said nothing.

  All his life, he had heard the same refrain: The great king this. . . The great king that. . . As if the kingdom itself were sacred. As if service alone was the highest calling.

  Now, having finally earned a place within those walls, abandoning it felt like treason. Like tearing out something he had only just been allowed to claim.

  Nothing more needed to be said. The decision settled on Oli’s face, clear as daylight.

  Osric saw it. His expression fell. Disappointment, not anger. But time had already run thin.

  He bound the travel sac shut, cast a charm to keep it taut, and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “You’re far better a man than I, Oli.” His voice softened. “I’ll be at the inn, just beyond the western border. You’ll know it the place by the yaks and riverstone buildings. The tallest keep there. I’ll stay until after tomorrow’s sunrise, then continue on.”

  “If by the grace of the Radiant you make it there, we can continue your apprenticeship.”

  “You’re not afraid they’ll ask where you went?” Oli asked. “I cannot lie to my king.”

  A heavy knowing settled behind Osric’s eyes. A truth meant only for him. He gave the boy a final pat on the shoulder.

  “West,” he said. “Yaks and riverstone. Best of luck, my boy. There is no shame in survival.”

  With that, the wizard left his study for the last time. Leaving Oli behind with honor, duty, and an ill fate waiting to be claimed.