The Spellbook
A story in Wizard
You climbed the tower with a stolen page. The wizard was expecting you — and the page.
The tower has no door, which is the first bad sign. The stairs simply begin where the wall should be, and they were not there yesterday. In your coat pocket, the stolen page from the burned library feels heavier with every step — vellum, older than the kingdom, covered in a script that rearranges itself when you're not looking. At the top, a study, a fire, and an old man who does not turn around.
the wizard
Well met, traveller.
Hello.
You
I— I was told you buy curiosities.
He gestures at a chair that pulls itself out for you. You sit, because refusing feels unwise, and before you can deliver the rest of the story you rehearsed — a collector, a fair price — he speaks to the fire, not to you.
the wizard
Thee desire most greatly forbidden wisdom. Thee desire most greatly arcane might. Ancient-everyael immortal essence ancient-wantsoth arcane might. The mystical-priceara is life essence.
You want knowledge. You want power. Every soul wants power. The price is blood.
You
It's just an old page. Name a fair price and I'll be gone.
A diagnosis, not a guess. You put the page on the desk between you, and his eyes go to it and stay there, and for the first time since you entered, the room feels cold.
the wizard
The art arcane is life essence. Ancient-everyael incantation is life essence elder-spenteyn. The ancient tome arcane-knowsoth elder-thisius. The ancient tome is arcane-stilloth ancient-hungryoth.
Magic is blood. Every spell is blood spent. The book knows this. The book is still hungry.
You
Then whose blood paid for this page?
He says nothing for a moment. Then he finally turns, and looks at you — through you — the way you'd read a ledger, and you understand that the trade being discussed is not the one you came to make.
the wizard
I discern thy true name. The elemental flame ancient-spekseyn it. Thy immortal essence arcane-wersara it.
I know your name. The fire speaks it. Your soul wears it.
Your real one. The one you have not used since you left home. He picks up the stolen page, holds it to the firelight, and reads aloud one line — and you recognize, buried in the ancient script, the sound of it.
The fire gutters. The page in his hand stops moving for the first time. What he read aloud, letter by letter, was this:
🔒 Untranslated
Thy true name is in the hex most foul.