The Grimoire of Grave Fates

2:00 A.M.: WREN WILLEMSON, 16, SWORDS


by Marieke Nijkamp


In a small room in the Swords Tower of the Galileo Academy for the Extraordinary sat a young Sorcerer who--according to their stepfather--had been born under unlucky stars. Wren sat cross-legged on the bed while a dead spider crawled across the bedspread. Despite the late hour, Wren still wore their regular clothes. A dark hoodie, easily two sizes too large. Compression gloves on their hands. A bulky walking brace around their left ankle, which had dislocated again. They tugged strands of blue and silver hair behind their ear, and a small bubble of low magical light that floated above their bed flickered.

The light barely illuminated their bland, narrow room, with its pale walls and looming wardrobe. Wren had never made an effort to decorate. The only signs that a student lived here at all were the stack of textbooks near the door, a stack of sketchbooks on the windowsill--filled with endless patterns and paintings that Wren didn t share with anyone--and the rat skeleton on the bedside table.

The dead spider shivered before its legs gave out from under it, and it curled up again, lifeless and broken.

Wren grimaced. With a wince of pain, they tossed the spider corpse out the open window. The bubble of light above them wavered briefly once more, and their hands trembled.

Stop it, Wren hissed--and the light steadied.

Focus, they told themself sternly--but their hands kept trembling.

There was a restlessness inside them that set Wren s teeth and joints on edge. Even though the Swords Tower was quiet and the night calm, Wren felt like their bones were going to crawl out through their skin. Because every time they closed their eyes, their mind replayed the afternoon s encounter at the Gargoyle Keep, and every part of them wanted to disappear.

They d needed time for themself after spectacularly failing yet another telekinesis test, and the bestiary had been crowded with Cups

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