Cal stiffened, his fingers halting their light touch on the harp's strings. He wasn't sure what to say. How did the Headmaster know? Had he somehow guessed, or worse, was this all part of something much larger than he'd realized? He had been hearing the song—its ethereal, haunting melody had been echoing in his mind for days now, ever since the storm, and the figure in the snow had appeared. But how could Brewyn have known?
Cal's mind spun with cautious thoughts, weighing the situation. He could feel the weight of Brewyn's gaze on him, sharp and assessing. The Headmaster had seen things in him, things Cal hadn't even fully understood himself. He had always been perceptive, quick to notice the small shifts in the air, the slight change in people's behavior. But now, standing in this dim room with the ancient harp, he realized he was walking a fine line, carefully balancing between revealing too much and withholding too much.
He didn't trust easily. The monastery, Brewyn, the Church—it all felt like a web of secrets, and Cal had learned long ago that being too eager with answers could leave one exposed. He needed to tread carefully.
A quick glance at Brewyn revealed nothing—his face was unreadable, the lines of age only adding to his aura of wisdom. But Cal could tell the Headmaster was waiting for something. A response, perhaps. Or maybe, just maybe, a slip of the tongue.
"I…" Cal began slowly, his voice deliberate, "I thought it was just the storm. The wind, the cold. Sometimes the mind plays tricks when you're alone."
Brewyn's expression shifted slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Ah, yes. The mind is a powerful thing. It can make the real feel like illusion and the illusion feel like truth."
Cal remained silent, his thoughts racing. Was Brewyn testing him? Or was he simply leading him to some greater truth? Something about the way Brewyn spoke suggested there was more to this room, more to the harp, more to the melody that had haunted him.
The air in the room grew heavier, the silence thicker. The weight of his own thoughts seemed to press down on him, urging him to speak, to admit something. But what? What was he supposed to admit?
The ring on his finger, too, felt like it had taken on a life of its own, its presence subtle but constant, a cold reminder of the connection he had yet to fully understand.
Brewyn's voice broke through the tension. "There are songs that the world has forgotten. Songs that no longer echo in the halls of time. But some, some are eternal. And they wait for the right listener."
Cal's mind snapped back to the moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered the Headmaster's words. There was something deeper here, something hidden within Brewyn's cryptic speech. He had to be cautious, wary of what was being suggested.
"The right listener…" Cal repeated softly, his gaze shifting to the harp again. He wanted to understand, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to.
Brewyn stepped closer to the instrument, his fingers hovering just above the strings. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire, and Cal could almost feel the weight of the moment bearing down on him.
Finally, the Headmaster spoke again, his voice low and filled with something that sounded like a quiet sorrow. "Some things are waiting for you, Cal. But you must decide when the time is right to listen."
A flicker of something—fear, curiosity, or perhaps something darker—passed through Cal's chest. He wasn't sure what was being asked of him, but he knew one thing: he was on the edge of something. Something vast, and potentially dangerous.
For a brief moment, the room seemed to stretch, the shadows growing deeper as if the very walls were pressing in on him. His fingers itched to touch the harp again, to let the song pull him deeper, but something inside him, something cautious and wary, held him back.
He wasn't ready. Not yet.
And yet, as Brewyn watched him with those piercing, ageless eyes, Cal couldn't help but wonder: Would he ever be ready?
Brewyn's gaze lingered on Cal for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he stepped closer to the harp. The dim light cast long shadows across the walls, and for a brief second, Cal felt the weight of the moment, the quiet pressure of the unknown pressing in from all sides.
"You're sharp," Brewyn said softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of something deeper. "More than most of your age. But even sharp eyes can miss what is in plain sight." He paused, as if weighing his next words. "That script you found... it was not by chance that it came into your hands. I placed it there for a reason, Cal."
Cal's heart skipped. The words hung in the air like the scent of something ancient, almost forgotten. Brewyn's gaze never left him, eyes like pools of knowledge too deep to fully fathom.
"Why?" Cal finally asked, his voice low but steady. "Why me?"
Brewyn's lips curved into something between a smile and a knowing sigh. "Because you are meant to see beyond the surface, beyond the mundane rituals of this place. Your path is... different, even if you have not yet understood it."
The Headmaster walked slowly toward him, the faint creaking of his robes the only sound in the still room. "The world does not bend easily to the will of the common man. The true powers, the ones that govern the fates of people, kingdoms, of empires, are not always apparent. They do not speak plainly. They whisper, they call in silence."
Brewyn stopped before the harp, his fingers hovering just above the strings. "And that song you've heard—the one that haunts the edges of your mind? It is no coincidence. It is a call, a summons, but it is one that only the truly attuned can hear. That song, like the script, is a thread in a much larger tapestry. A tapestry that you, Cal, have begun to unravel."
There was a finality in his tone, as if Brewyn had just shared something monumental, though veiled in layers of secrecy. He took a step back, letting the space between them grow. "But not everything is for you to understand just yet. Some truths are... carefully guarded. Even those who are meant to know must wait."
Brewyn's eyes darkened, a glint of something ancient and knowing flashing in the depths of them. His tone softened as he spoke, more to himself than to Cal. "I saw it in you long before you found that script, Cal. Long before the others thought you were just another pageboy. But you are not like them."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as though the room itself demanded secrecy. "You are keen. More observant than most. I have watched you, noticed the way your eyes linger on the edges of things, the way your mind works in the quiet of the shadows. You are not content with the surface, with what you are told. You question, you challenge, and that... that is rare."
Brewyn paused, as though letting the weight of his words settle between them. Cal could feel the air thickening around him, as if the Headmaster's gaze had unlocked something deep within him, something he had always known but never spoken aloud.
"Most of your kind, those who have not been raised in the secrets of the Church, would have followed blindly," Brewyn continued, his voice low, almost reverent. "They would have accepted their place without question, without ever seeking to understand the true nature of their world. But not you. I saw that in you, and I gave you the chance. To prove yourself. To see what you would become when faced with the unknown."
His eyes met Cal's, piercing through him like a blade, but with an odd, almost approving warmth. "And you've done well. Your mind, sharp as it is, has begun to cut through the veil. You've asked the right questions. Now, the question is whether you are prepared for the answers."
Brewyn took a step back, his expression unreadable once more. The moment stretched between them, like a thread taut with tension.
"I gave you the chance to prove yourself, Cal," he said, his voice calm but heavy with meaning. "And now you must decide: will you walk this path to the end, or will you retreat, as the others have, into ignorance? The choice, as it always has been, is yours."
He turned to leave, his robes sweeping the stone floor in silence, but before he crossed the threshold.
Cal's voice, though steady, carried a weight of uncertainty as he spoke, his words lingering in the silence like a question that had been clawing at him from within.
"Headmaster," he began, his gaze fixed on Brewyn's retreating figure, "what of the ring? Do you know anything about it?"
There was a pause, brief yet heavy, as if the air itself held its breath. Brewyn, halfway through the threshold, stopped. He did not turn, but his hand rested on the doorframe, fingers curling ever so slightly, as if testing the strength of an invisible barrier.
"Ah, the ring," Brewyn murmured, his voice soft but filled with an unsettling calm. "You've noticed its weight, haven't you? It's never far from you—inseparable, as it should be. A symbol, a key to something far older, and yet, something that belongs to you now."
Cal's breath caught in his chest as Brewyn spoke, the ancient words wrapping around him like a shroud. The Headmaster's voice was quiet, measured, as if each syllable carried a weight far greater than the room itself could contain.
"They say it was forged not in fire, but in grief," Brewyn continued, his eyes narrowing as though he were reciting a forgotten incantation, "By an elven mage whose name has been lost—erased from memory, perhaps by time, perhaps by his own will."
Cal stood still, his heart thumping with an intensity he hadn't anticipated. The air seemed thicker now, heavy with the weight of the Headmaster's words. A part of him wanted to break the silence, to ask questions, but something told him that Brewyn had already said what he needed to. The answer was already within reach, if only he could piece it together.
"He lived a life of tragedy, one that unfolded slowly, painfully," Brewyn's voice grew softer, almost mournful. "He was just a man too slow to save what mattered. Too slow to speak when words could have healed. Too slow to act when lives depended on it. Too slow to choose when love still lingered."
Cal's fingers tightened around the ring on his finger, the words resonating deep within him. Something stirred in his chest—something familiar, yet distant. He could almost feel the mage's regret, his sorrow, as though it had been passed on through time, seeping into his very soul.
"On his dying breath," Brewyn continued, his voice steady, "They say he whispered a single line into the air: 'Let another never stand as I did—watching, wishing, too late.'"
A chill ran down Cal's spine. The words felt as though they were meant for him, for his very being. Was this the reason the ring had found him? Was this why it had never left his side, never faltered, no matter how far he tried to push it away?
"And with that breath, the ring was born." Brewyn's tone shifted, becoming almost reverential, as though he were speaking of something divine, something sacred. "Not from gold, but copper—humble, tarnished by sorrow. A plain band, unimpressive to the eye, yet soaked in something older than spellcraft. It was not enchanted through chants or blood, but through that final moment—A moment where regret bled into resolve."
Cal could see the image forming in his mind—an elven mage, broken and burdened, creating something that would forever bear the mark of his regret. He could almost hear the final whisper of the mage's breath, echoing through the ages. "Let another never stand as I did..."
"They called it Cuall na hAimléise." Brewyn's voice held a deep, somber finality. "The Ring of Misfortune."
The words fell like a hammer, the full weight of their meaning sinking into the pit of Cal's stomach. The Ring of Misfortune. It made sense, and yet, it didn't. The ring had always been there, a part of him, and yet now, in the light of these words, it felt foreign, burdened with a history he had never asked for.
"It offered no strength, no glory," Brewyn went on, his gaze intense, "Only time. Not time eternal, but just enough. Enough to see. Enough to think. Enough to act. A flicker more than fate allowed."
Cal's breath caught again. A flicker more than fate allowed. That was it, wasn't it? That was the truth of it—the ring didn't grant power, didn't make him invincible. It simply gave him a moment, a fraction of time when others would be frozen in their choices. A single, fleeting moment to change the course of things. To do what he had never been able to do before.
"It passed from hand to hand, never staying long." Brewyn's words echoed in the room, heavy with meaning. "Some lost it. Some cast it away. But every bearer shared one thing: They had once stood frozen, And swore never again."
Cal stood motionless, the room fading around him. The weight of the ring on his finger suddenly felt more substantial, as though it had taken root deep within him. The mage's sorrow had become his own, and with it, a burden he hadn't asked for but now could not shake. He could feel it—this need to act, to do something, to change the course of his life, just as the mage had once tried and failed.
"I'm not like them," Cal whispered under his breath, his eyes falling to the ring, as if it could hear him, as if it could somehow understand. "I won't stand frozen again."
Brewyn's voice broke the silence, soft but filled with a quiet, knowing tone. "No, Cal. You won't. But know this: the path ahead is not simple, and the weight of what you carry is not to be taken lightly. There are always consequences."
Cal's heart raced, his thoughts tangled in a whirlwind of uncertainty. He had expected answers, but now more questions swirled in his mind. The ring—its history, its purpose, its burden—was far more than he had anticipated. But now, another thought pressed against him, nagging, growing louder with each passing second.
He took a step forward, his voice steady but laced with suspicion. "Why, Brewyn?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why did you really give me the ring? What do you want from me?"
Brewyn didn't immediately answer. He merely stood there, facing the door as if contemplating whether to answer at all. For a long moment, the silence stretched between them like an unspoken truth.
Then, with a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Brewyn spoke, his voice calm but sharp with intent. "Ah, you are keen, Cal. I can see that. You are not like most who wander blindly through their fates." His gaze shifted ever so slightly, the shadow of something inscrutable passing over his features. "That's why I chose you. You'll make a very... interesting pawn."
Cal didn't flinch. The word pawn hung in the air, but it didn't sting like it should have.
A pageboy doesn't dream of the most, he thought. He dreams of the next rung on the ladder.
Something in Brewyn's voice—the certainty, the weight of knowledge—ignited a spark in him. Caution flared, of course. He wasn't foolish enough to trust the Headmaster entirely. But beneath that wariness was a thrill he couldn't deny. For the first time in his life, someone had looked at him and seen use. Not a burden, not a background figure, but a piece in play.
That meant he mattered.
Cal's lips twitched into something like a smile. "A pawn's still on the board," he said quietly, eyes never leaving Brewyn's. "And sometimes… pawns cross to the other side."
Brewyn's smile deepened, eyes glinting like polished stone. "Indeed they do. But only the ones who learn when to move and when to wait."
Cal nodded once. "Then teach me. Whatever game you're playing—I want to understand it. I'm tired of being a bystander."
The Headmaster studied him a moment longer, as if reassessing. Then he gave a subtle nod, almost respectful. "Careful, Cal. You will have my guidance."
Cal looked down at the ring. It pulsed faintly, warm against his skin, like a heartbeat buried in copper. He didn't know what would come next—what consequences Brewyn had warned of, or what role he would truly play. But for once, he felt the current pulling toward something, not away.
Let the others have their wealth, their noble bloodlines, their grand destinies.
He had time.
And that would be enough.