Living in a small town on the outskirts of a vast empire may not be as bad as it seems. True, we seldom receive the latest news and trendy goods on time, but major troubles also tend to steer clear of us. Over the past couple of decades, not a single major epidemic, civil strife, or civil war has reached the three islets off the eastern coast. And yes, those islands were my home. Only occasional visits from tax collectors, preachers, and merchants reminded us of our affiliation with the great and prosperous Kingdom of Verania. Even our governor, due to the lack of profitability in his domain, often ignored invitations to the capital gatherings, choosing to oversee his trading port on the main island.
Growing up on the tiniest of those islets, barely populated by five hundred settlers, I never really pondered what I would do in the future. That is until the capital church sent inquisitors to establish the authority of a unified faith. We had heard of their methods and ambitions, so the locals actively avoided the magicians in their red robes.
I grew up an orphan, viewed as an outsider by everyone, so I didn't feel any particular attachment to the locals. But who could have known that by dabbling in dark magic, those warriors would suspect the only family that had helped me with work during difficult times? It was only because the miller lived closest to the mysterious cave that glowed in the dark nights that they interrogated his daughter. No one in the town even attempted to defend them, though they understood that without the mill, surviving the winter would be tough.
I stood up for that family, even though I received objectionable remarks from the pitiful vagabonds, as they called me. A barrage of insults was thrown at me, and a fireball was heading my way. To my surprise, I didn't perish, nor did I suffer a single burn. Somehow, I managed to dispel the magic before it hit its mark. It's not hard to guess that within seconds, I was pinned to the ground and dragged in chains onto a ship. My last memory of "home" was my crooked shack burning as the townspeople averted their eyes, sighing in relief at the departing magicians.
However, my life didn't end so abruptly, and on our way, we were intercepted by the governor's patrol ship. It turned out that the inquisitors had come without an invitation, and as much as they wanted to, they had no right to hunt witches without the local lord's permission. Feron, the local feudal lord, took me from the magicians and said that he would decide my fate himself. Not that he cared much about some orphan, but magicians were highly valued in Verania and could easily obtain a knight's title. And on our islands, there hadn't been a decent magician in half a century. If the governor had a genuine magician in his service, he could somewhat elevate his status in the eyes of his neighbors. After quickly arranging the necessary documents, they sent me to the place where all promising young men are sent—the Academy of Combat and Magical Arts, where I ultimately ended up.