Hayward continued to sit under a canvas awning, watching the storm approach. Dark, billowing clouds had been filling the eastern sky for the last few hours. With the sun set, he could no longer see the clouds, but could track their progress by the stars disappearing in their wake. The occasional ball of light exploded in the sky, illuminating the magnitude of the approaching storm. The rich mountain air reeked of rain, but it hadn’t started falling yet. This wasn’t a normal storm, but he wasn’t worried.

The knock repeated, a little louder this time.

With a sigh, Hayward left the comfort of the small fire he’d been feeding all night and walked over to the gate. Opening the viewing slit, he peered into the darkness, seeing nothing. “Blasted wind,” he mumbled, starting to slide the wood panel back over the slit.

“Wait,” came a small voice.

“Who’s there?” demanded Hayward.

“I need in,” came the reply.

“It’s late. Come back in the morning.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“This is no place for beggars.” Hayward started to shut the slit again.

“I’m not. I’m just a kid. Please let me in.”

“Let me get a look at you.” He impatiently slammed the panel open again as a small dark shape moved away from the door. With the clouds covering the moon, he couldn’t make out any features.

“Alright. Come in so I can get a look at you, but no funny business.”

Hayward slide the heavy bolt aside to open the small door set in the middle of the large gate. The small figure slipped inside, and he closed and bolted the door again.

The figure looked around the courtyard. It was the slow, measured gaze of a craftsman assessing a competitor’s work, completely at odds with the scared visage of the boy trying to get inside a moment ago. Two large buildings loomed on the far side of the courtyard. A few windows were lit with a pale blue light, but most were dark. Other than the gate guard, there was only a solitary figure, silhouetted by the light from a window behind him, doing some sort of a stretching or exercise routine in the courtyard. The movements were slow and graceful, yet hinted at power hidden beneath. Hayward led them to a stone bench by the fire. Lightning flashed in the eastern sky.

The figure lowered the hood on his cloak to reveal a boy of about sixteen years. The first rumble of thunder echoed in the air.

“What’s your name, lad?”

The boy sat silently before answering. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” said Hayward. “Did someone put you up to this? Why are you here?”

“I need to be here,” said the boy, calmly. “I don’t know why but I just need to be here.”

“Classes don’t start for a few days,” said Hayward. “You’ll have to come back then.” Standing up, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to usher him back to the gate.

“No!” yelled the boy, shoving the hand away.

“Come on, lad. I don’t have time for this.” Clamping his hand around the boy’s forearm, he yanked him to his feet, and started dragging him towards the gate.

The boy fought to free his arm, but couldn’t break his grip. Growing desperate, the boy kicked Hayward in the back of the knee. Collapsing to the ground, Hayward clasped his knee with both hands, screaming in pain and frustration.

“You’re going to regret that,” he said through clenched teeth.

The boy began running away, head turned and eyes fixed on Hayward, when he ran into something solid. Bouncing backwards, he fell onto his back.

“That’s enough,” came the voice of the second figure.

The boy tried to scramble away, but the figure was quicker. Grabbing the boy’s arm, he twisted it painfully behind the boy’s back.

“This is a fight that you’re not going to win,” he whispered in the boy’s ear, with just a hint of menace. “Just relax, and tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said Hayward, back on his feet but clearly favoring one leg. “That bugger attacked me. I’d shove my knife in his kidney if he wasn’t so young.”

The figure holding the boy let out a deep, hearty laugh.

“You wouldn’t kill a worm even if you went fishing, Hayward. Now lad, if I let go of your arm, can we have a civil conversation?”

The boy nodded.

“I’ll watch the gate while you get someone to look at your leg, Hayward.”

The two of them walked towards the stone bench, the man’s hand gently rested on the boy’s shoulder. They waited until Hayward had limped off towards the building on the right before continuing.

“What’s going on?”

“I need to be here, but he wouldn’t let me in.”

“That’s not an explanation,” said the man, sitting down on the bench. “Tell me your name.”

“I don’t know it,” said the boy quietly. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“My name is Osmont,” he said, shaking the boy’s hand. “Did you hit your head?”

He gently probed the boy’s head but didn’t find any signs of injury.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“My chest feels like it’s on fire.”

Osmont helped the boy take off his pack and cloak. There was a small patch of red bleeding through his shirt over the heart.

“You should have said that you needed healing.”

“I didn’t know,” said the boy. He gingerly peeled his shirt off over his head.

A bright flash of sheet lightning lit the area like a noon day sun, capturing the moment in time. An intricate symbol full of swirls and intersecting lines had been carved into the boy’s chest over top of his heart. The pattern was intricate, carved in smooth, precise strokes. Osmont’s breath caught in his throat. Osmont would have admired the craftsmanship in creating something so eerily beautiful if it wasn’t so vile.

“Is it bad?” asked the boy, not daring to look down.

“No,” said Osmont, his voice not matching his words. “I’ve healed much worse wounds, it’s just ... do you remember anything before you came here?”

The boy sat there calmly, eyes moving upwards as he thought, before answering in an indifferent manner. “Not a thing.”

“Someone obviously did this to you and must have brought you to the gate, but you don’t remember any of that.”

The boy gently shook his head.

“You may feel an icy sensation. Just try to relax.”

Osmont placed his left hand on the boy’s shoulder and hovered his right over his heart. He slowed his breathing and his eyes seemed to lose focus. Sweat slowly formed on his brow, but that may have been from the fire’s heat. He stayed rigid for a full minute, before dropping his hand to his side and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but this is beyond me.”

The boy stared into his eyes for the first time and flinched. The eyes were an amber color. They were the eyes of a wolf.

Osmont was equally surprised to see the boy’s violet eyes. They were strangely beautiful in the red flickering light of the fire. He had never seen eyes like them before and didn’t expect to see another pair in his lifetime.

“Is it bad?” asked the boy again, now mesmerized as he studied the swirling pattern on his chest.

This time it was Osmont’s turn to say the words. “I don’t know. Simple cuts should be easy to heal. This is something more ... something vile.”

“I would call it beautiful if it wasn’t cut into my chest.”

“Don’t let appearances deceive you,” said Osmont. “Let’s see what you have with you. Maybe something will jog your memory.”

Osmont started pulling items out of the boy’s pack. He removed several sets of clothing, all mundane in color and style, yet finely made. It was the type of garb you’d expect to find on a well-off merchant. They checked each article but didn’t find anything of interest hidden in their folds. He pulled out a large leather pouch which clinked when he set it on the bench. Assuming that it was full of coins, he had the boy go through its contents while he searched the rest of the pack. There was paper, quills, and several books, as well as a variety of other items which you’d expect a new student to be carrying.

Giving up on the pack, Osmont picked the cloak up off of the bench and began checking its pockets. He found a single folded piece of paper tucked away in an inside pocket. Unfolding it, he saw that it was written in a neat script, and he began to read.

The boy’s name is Donovan. His memory has been blocked due to the actions of his parents. I implore you to not hold the actions of others against him. I have always found him to be a good, honest boy who always impressed me with his many talents. I’ve been told that he possesses the Gift and I beg you to test him and allow him to study on your hallowed grounds. Please, he has nowhere else to go.

Donovan, I know that the next several years will be difficult. I pray that our paths will someday cross so that I can explain why this was necessary. You were the son I always wanted and my life will be empty without you.

Eamon

Osmont handed the note to Donovan. “Can you read this?”

Donovan stared at the note, eyes swaying back and forth. He looked up at Osmont, violet eyes wet with tears. “Why would someone do this to me?”

“I fear that’s a question you’ll ask yourself on many occasions,” said Osmont, folding the clothes and stowing them back in the pack. Making sure that the pouch was securely tied, he placed it on top and closed the pack.

“What happens now?” asked Donovan, taking the pack back and resting it on his lap.

“You must understand that this is highly irregular. While classes don’t start for several days, enrollment ended weeks ago. This would have been so much easier if you had been tested at the same time as everyone else this summer.”

“Maybe I was.”

“I’ll check into it. I’ll talk to the Headmaster in the morning about getting you tested, but I won’t make any promises. Either way, I don’t feel comfortable letting you go until I have a better idea what happened to you. I need to do some research, but don’t get your hopes up.”

“So I can stay?” said Donovan, a smile on his face for the first time.

Osmont stared up at the storm. The clouds had swallowed all of the stars, and the rain could start at any time. Another ball of lightning grew until it burst, lighting the area. Osmont waited for the thunder to hit, this time they could feel it shake the ground.

“I’ll arrange something for tonight and we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

Osmont added a few logs to the fire from a pile beside the bench. They sat there in silence, watching the storm’s growing fury. The rain hit in full force without warning. The stone courtyard was instantly turned into a shallow pool. They heard Hayward splashing towards them well before they could make out his dark shape. Ducking under the awning beside them, he shook himself like a dog, spraying water everywhere, before plopping himself down on the bench.

“How’s the knee?” asked Osmont.

“As good as new,” said Hayward. “I’m curious why you didn’t offer to heal it yourself.” He took off his cloak and began shaking water off of it.

“I wanted some time with the boy.”

“And?”

“And you should take care of yourself. It looks like we’re going to get hit hard tonight.”

He motioned Donovan to get up and the two of them raced toward the building on the left. Climbing up six steps, they entered the door, and paused to catch their breath.

The building had an ageless quality. Built out of thick featureless stone, with no visible seams, it felt like it had been carved out of a single piece of rock. Donovan had seen a steep pitched roof through the flashes of lightning, but its features were hidden.

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