The Realm and the Writer

He paced back and forth, glancing up at the moon through the rough stone opening above him. It all seemed to be unfolding like a horrible nightmare. The spell had to be cast during the night of the waxing moon or it wouldn't work and the apprentice hadn't even arrived with the child.

The child, the unknown heir to the royal throne of Topamon. The one who's blood flowed with a thousand years of pure celestial energy. The one who could give him all of the power that he had wanted for so long.

His frantic pacing was cut short by the scuffing and stumbling of his apprentice. He burst atop the stairs holding what seemed to be a bundle of dirty blankets. The wizard rushed to him and threw back the blankets in haste. A small boy, near the age of 6 cycles of the sun, lay asleep. Thin and frail, he held the demeanor of the poor herdsmen of the area.

A bolt of lightning flashed across the round opening in the ceiling. The wizard chuckled to himself and carried the child to the pedestal in the center and began reading the incantation from his leather bound book.

The storm outside raged stronger as he read, the bolts of lightning flashing nearer and with more force. The incantation was drawing to an end and the wizards eyes seemed to glow with determination. Just as he utters the last word amongst the clatter of the most brilliant bolt of lighting an owl bursts forth through the hole above and takes the brilliant blast, saving the boy from sure death.

The wizard screams out in agony as his skin begins to froth and bubble. He turns to his apprentice with a look of hatred. "You! You contaminated the spell. If you had been more careful this never would have happened," he shrinks back in agony to the corner of the room. His screams fade off into the morning light as sunshine filters in through the towers windows. Birds sing and the wind rustles in the beginning of a new era. The king has been reborn.