Chadwick Rye

The velvet-wrapped grimoire lay open on Magus Thorne’s desk, its blank pages awaiting the story that had never been meant for telling. Outside, a late autumn storm painted the windows of his tower with silver rivulets that mimicked the intricate scarring along his forearms—permanent reminders of magic pushed beyond its limits and the price extracted for such hubris.

“They say every wizard’s journey begins with fire or water,” he murmured to the empty room, his quill hovering above the pristine parchment. The enchanted ink—brewed from midnight berries, powdered dragon scale, and his own blood—gleamed with opalescent promise in the lamplight.

How to distill eight decades of arcane study, political intrigue, and personal sacrifice into opening words that wouldn’t immediately burst into flames from the weight of truth they carried? The Arcanum had strict rules about autobiographies; certain secrets were permitted, others would trigger the Council’s censoring spells before the ink could dry.

Thorne closed his eyes, memories cascading like the rain outside—his first accidental spell that turned his childhood bedroom to glass; the brutal years of apprenticeship under Magister Vex; the forbidden romance with Lyra of the Winter Court; the three wars he’d helped win through whispered words that unmade reality itself.

With a decisive motion, he touched quill to page and wrote:

*”I died for the first time on my sixteenth birthday, and it was this initial death—painfully educational though inconvenient—that revealed my true calling as a necromancer.”*

The words shimmered for a moment, magic recognizing magic, before settling into the parchment like roots seeking soil. No censoring flames erupted, no alarms echoed through the ethereal planes. Thorne permitted himself a small smile. Truth, carefully crafted, could slip past even the Arcanum’s watchful eyes.

His familiar, a raven with feathers like polished obsidian, landed on the grimoire’s edge with a judgemental caw.

“Too dramatic?” Thorne asked, considering the sentence again. “Perhaps. But one doesn’t reach my age without learning that history remembers those who understand the value of a compelling beginning.”

The storm intensified, thunder rolling across the night sky like ancient bones being shifted in their crypts. Some would call it an omen; Thorne recognized it as simple atmospheric validation. After decades of keeping secrets—some to protect himself, others to shield the world from truths it wasn’t prepared to face—there was something deliciously rebellious about finally committing his story to paper.

“Every great mage is, at heart, a storyteller,” his first teacher had told him. “We reshape reality by first reimagining it through carefully chosen words.”

The raven tilted its head, its eyes reflecting lamplight with unnerving intelligence.

“You’re right,” Thorne conceded to the unspoken criticism. “Perhaps I should explain the circumstances of that first death before proceeding.” His quill returned to the parchment, words flowing more freely now that the crucial first sentence had broken the dam of hesitation.

Outside, the storm continued its percussion against stone and glass, nature’s own autobiography being written across the night sky. Inside, an old necromancer began the dangerous work of resurrection—not of bodies this time, but of memories long buried and truths half-forgotten.

This would either be his greatest work or his final folly. Either way, the story had begun.

If you like this little story please consider subscribing to my blog so that you don’t miss any new ones. Also you can check out other stories that I have written and are currently writing like Forbidden Bond, a tale about a human falling in love with a Half goblin while being hunted down by fallen angels and evil nobles. Or you can check out Chronicles of the Giantess and follow Valorie the Giantess as she adventures across the land of Calladan. Please feel free to leave me a comment. I would love to know what you think about any of the stories.