Chapter One

Wizard of Enchantment

Book One

By Marie Higgins

Cover Design by Keele Publishing

In the beginning of where dreams come true…

The air in the training yard smelled of scorched leather and damp earth, thick with the tension of an expectant crowd.

Merlin Seymour’s pulse pounded like war drums. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the tightness coiled deep in his chest. The wooden hilt of his practice sword was worn smooth from years of use, yet it felt foreign in his grasp today. Too many eyes were watching. Too many waiting for him to fail.

Across the yard, Lord Garrik’s son, Caspian, smirked as he twirled his sword with effortless ease. Arrogant. Skilled. Dangerous. He had spent his life training with the best swordsmen in the kingdom, while Merlin had honed his skills fighting with street thieves and mercenaries. Here, in front of nobles and knights, he was the outsider. The orphan. The nobody.

But he wouldn’t lose. Not today.

The instructor raised his hand. “Begin!”

Caspian lunged—fast, fluid, lethal. His blade flashed in the torchlight, a streak of silver aimed directly at Merlin’s ribs. Too fast. Too sharp.

Merlin’s instincts screamed at him. Move. Now.

He barely twisted out of reach, his muscles tightening as the steel sliced through empty space, whispering past his ribs. Even in the split-second evasion, he could feel it—the sharp displacement of air, the ghost of what could have been a fatal wound.

The crowd gasped. Some leaned forward, eager for blood.

Merlin had no time to think, only react. He pivoted on his heel, his weight shifting smoothly as he raised his sword and struck—a precise, calculated arc meant to unbalance.

But Caspian was waiting for it.

Their blades met with a brutal clang, the force of the collision rattling down Merlin’s arms. Sparks flared, dancing like fireflies in the evening light. The impact sent a sharp vibration through his wrist, but he gritted his teeth and held his ground.

Caspian’s smirk deepened. “Not bad, for a rat with a blade.”

Merlin’s grip tightened, a flicker of anger pulsing beneath his ribs. For years, Merlin had allowed Caspian to rile him. But not this time.

Caspian pressed forward, his sword slicing in rapid succession—left, right, downward strike. Merlin barely deflected each one, his body moving on instinct, muscles burning as the duel blurred into a deadly rhythm.

Steel rang against steel, a symphony of violence.

Merlin felt the shift in Caspian’s stance just a second too late. The noble’s next thrust was a feint, a clever misdirection—and Merlin fell for it.

Caspian twisted at the last second, his real attack slamming toward Merlin’s exposed side.

He cursed. There was no time to block. Only escape.

He threw himself backward, his boots skidding across the sand, but the motion left him off-balance—just for a breath, a heartbeat, a single vulnerable moment.

Caspian grinned, moving in for the kill.

Sparks flew.

The crowd roared.

Caspian drove forward with brutal precision. Clang. Clang. Clang. Every strike sent vibrations rattling through Merlin’s arms, but he held his ground. His breathing steadied. His heart slowed. The world narrowed to steel and sweat and instinct.

Until something changed.

A heat coiled inside his chest—wild, uncontrollable.

His vision blurred at the edges. A strange buzz filled his ears, deep and vibrating like a storm brewing beneath his skin. His pulse thundered, not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.

Something awakening.

Suddenly, fire erupted from his palm. A scorching, untamed inferno lashed toward Caspian like a serpent uncoiling. The noble barely had time to throw himself backward before the flames struck the ground, searing the sand black.

The entire yard fell deathly silent.

Merlin staggered back, chest heaving, his hands trembling as he stared at them in horror. His fingers still burned—not with pain, but with the echo of something ancient. Something buried inside him for too long. This couldn’t be happening.

Several people gasped, but then silence stretched through the air as cold as steel.

“He’s a witchborn!”

Caspian’s voice slashed through the stunned silence as sharply as his blade had moments before.

The words struck like a curse, echoing in Merlin’s skull. Witchborn. The word carried the weight of fear, superstition, and death.

For a second—just a second—the world seemed to tilt beneath him. Then, chaos erupted.

Panic surged through Merlin’s veins, cold and suffocating, ice clashing against the fire still writhing beneath his skin. The magic hadn’t fully faded—he could still feel it coiled inside him, pulsing like an unspent storm.

Wild.

Untamed.

Terrifying.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The nobles shrank back as if he had suddenly turned into a monster, their faces contorted in horror. Mothers clutched their children. A merchant tripped over his own feet trying to back away. The whispers swelled into shouts.

“Did you see that?”

“Impossible! No one’s used magic in years!”

“He’s dangerous! Kill him before—”

“Summon the guards! Call the Arcane Order!”

The crowd was no longer just a crowd. It was a tide—an unpredictable, fear-driven force ready to turn on him at any moment.

Merlin’s heart slammed against his ribs. He tried to step back, but his boots slipped in the scorched sand, the heat from the charred ground still lingering beneath his feet.

This wasn’t happening… It could not be happening.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his limbs frozen between fight and flight. But his mind screamed at him. Run. Now.

But before he could move, a voice cut through the panic. Deep. Commanding. Unyielding.

“Seize him.”

Magic was forbidden in Eldoria. The punishment? Death.

A dozen guards surged forward. Merlin’s heart slammed against his ribs. No. No, no, no. He turned and bolted.

The crowd scattered as he tore through the yard, shouts erupting behind him. He heard the clatter of pursuit—boots pounding against stone, the scrape of swords unsheathed.

Ahead—a line of guards blocked the exit.

Too many. No escape.

Unless…

A spark ignited in his chest. Desperate, Merlin threw out his hand, instinct and terror guiding him.

The ground trembled beneath him. A deep, thrumming force surged from the earth, rattling the training yard as if the world itself had drawn a sharp breath. Then—Boom.

A violent gust of wind exploded outward, knocking the guards off their feet like rag dolls. Wood splintered as nearby crates shattered, their contents spilling across the scorched sand. Dust and debris swirled through the air in a thick, choking storm, blinding those nearest to him.

But Merlin didn’t stop. The power coursing through him was too raw, too immense, too alive. It wasn’t just magic. It was something else. It pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat, a force so ancient and boundless that for a single, terrifying moment, he felt weightless—as if he might be swept away by it entirely. As if he was no longer just himself.

Then came a whisper. Not from the crowd. Not from the guards. Not from the wind. From somewhere inside him.

“Awaken, child of fire.”

The words curled through his mind like smoke, slow and deliberate, edged with something both familiar and foreign.

Merlin’s stomach twisted violently. A cold sweat broke out across his skin, clashing with the unbearable heat still searing through his veins. He didn’t know what was happening to him. Didn’t know who had spoken. Didn’t know if the voice was real—or if his own magic had finally turned against him.

But none of that mattered. He couldn’t stop now.

He lunged for the stone wall, grabbed the edge, and hauled himself over. Pain tore through his shoulder as he landed hard on the other side. But he was moving before he could think, sprinting down the winding alleys of Eldoria.

The rooftops glowed with lantern light. The bells of the palace tower began to toll. They were calling the hunt.

Merlin didn’t look back. He had no idea where he was going.

All he knew was that his life had just changed forever.

The night air was thick with the tolling of bells. A low, haunting chime that echoed across the kingdom like a funeral dirge.

The bells meant one thing. A hunt.

Merlin didn’t know how far he ran—only that he couldn’t stop. His breath came in ragged bursts, his lungs burning as he tore through the winding alleys of Eldoria. The kingdom stretched endlessly before him, a labyrinth of shadowed streets and towering spires. The city had transformed into a waking beast, roused by the alarm. Windows slammed shut. Lanterns flickered behind heavy curtains. Whispers of fear slithered through the dark as citizens hid behind locked doors, knowing better than to meddle in the affairs of the Arcane Order.

But the streets weren’t empty. They echoed with the guards barking orders, their voices sharp and urgent. The rhythmic clang of iron-plated boots against stone sent tremors through the ground, a merciless cadence of pursuit. Swords rasped from their sheaths, steel murmuring against leather. The Order wouldn’t let a witchborn escape.

Merlin’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world. His arms burned, his legs ached, but stopping wasn’t an option. He threw himself forward, past the stench of rotting produce and spilled ale, past the glow of a smoldering brazier left abandoned outside a blacksmith’s forge.

Above him, the moon hung heavy and swollen, an unblinking silver eye casting elongated shadows over the rooftops. Somewhere in the distance, a group of merchants staggered from a tavern, voices thick with drink and laughter—oblivious to the chaos unfurling mere streets away.

Merlin turned sharply, skidding as his boots struck loose gravel. His shoulder clipped a wooden post, but he pushed through the pain, momentum driving him forward.

Then the air changed. A sharp whistle—too fast, too precise—his instincts screamed. He ducked.

A crossbow bolt whizzed past his head, embedding itself into the wooden post beside him with a sickening thunk. Splinters sprayed into the air, a jagged warning of what would have been had he been just a second slower.

Too close.

A fresh surge of panic clawed at his throat, but he swallowed it down. Panic meant death. He had to think—had to move. Somewhere in the tangled maze of Eldoria’s lower district, he could lose them. He had to.

The city sprawled before him—a twisted web of alleys, rickety bridges, and towering stone walls. He knew these streets better than most, but knowledge wouldn’t matter if The Order had hounds.

Then he heard it. A deep, guttural baying cut through the night air like a blade.

His stomach dropped. The Order wasn’t just sending guards. They were sending their beasts.

A ripple of dread curled down his spine. Pursuit hounds. He had seen what they could do—seen how they could track a scent through rain and fire, how they could tear a man apart before he even had time to scream.

“I need to get off the streets,” he whispered, breathless.

Frantically, he scanned his surroundings. The buildings loomed high on either side, their rooftops uneven and treacherous. There. A stack of crates against the old stone wall of a tavern, leading up toward a narrow balcony. It wasn’t much, but it was a chance.

He didn’t hesitate. With a desperate leap, he caught the edge of the lowest crate, hauling himself up. The wood groaned beneath his weight, shifting precariously, but he ignored it. One step at a time—faster, higher.

A commotion erupted behind him.

“There! On the crates!”

Torchlight flooded the alley, long shadows dancing wildly against the walls.

Merlin vaulted onto the balcony, barely gripping the railing in time to stop himself from tumbling over. His heart pounded as he scrambled up, his feet finding purchase on the uneven boards. Above him, the rooftops stretched in a jagged sea of terracotta and chimney stacks.

If he could just—

Crack. The wood beneath him gave a sickening groan before splintering. For one terrifying heartbeat, he was weightless. Falling.

Then suddenly, a hand grabbed his wrist. Strong. Steady. Unrelenting.

Before he could react, he was yanked upward with surprising force, his body dragged over the ledge and onto solid ground. He landed hard, air ripping from his lungs as he gasped for breath.

A shadow loomed over him. Not a guard. Not a beast.

A woman.

She stood tall, poised despite the urgency of the moment. Her dark cloak billowed slightly in the night breeze, revealing glimpses of well-worn leather armor beneath. Golden-brown eyes, sharp as a falcon’s, studied him with quiet scrutiny. A dagger rested against her thigh, its hilt glinting in the moonlight and peeked over her shoulder—casual, familiar, as if it belonged there.

This was no ordinary woman. Her gaze locked onto his. A smirk ghosted her lips, edged with amusement but lacking true warmth.

“Are you aware that you are making a mess of this escape?”

Merlin’s breath hitched. Recognition slammed into him like a blow. Princess Lysara.

He had never met her, but her reputation preceded her. Everyone in Eldoria knew of the lioness of the battlefield. The warrior princess. The last heir of a kingdom teetering on the brink of war.

And right now, she was the only thing standing between him and certain death.