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Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.

That had been the promise he made the day he departed for the Solstryce Academy.

He remembered that day clearly, like how he’d been unable to sleep the night before, giddy at the thought of leaving his village to go abroad and study.

Of course, with that giddiness came a weight across his shoulders as the young man was reminded of the sacrifice being made in order for him to have this opportunity, and how much the hopes of not only his parents, but those villagers who had put money towards his education. They had done so—Caleb knew—in hopes that one day, once Caleb had graduated from the Academy, he would return and use his power and influence to help his village to flourish in its corner of the Empire. To let them down would not only be to shame himself, but his parents, who had encouraged his burgeoning talent, and persuaded their neighbors to support their son.

“You’ll be fine,” his mother had said upon finding him awake, just as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon.

He would never forget his mother as she’d been that morning. She had wrapped a woolen shawl that had once upon a time been a vibrant forest green (“A wedding present from my sister,” she had told him many years ago, when he’d asked where she’d gotten it) around her shoulders, providing more protection from the late autumn chill than the plain shift she had worn to bed. Her hair, which hung over her shoulder in a loose plait that curled at the end, was coppery auburn, like Caleb’s, though unlike her son’s, Una’s hair was beginning to grey. Another shared characteristic between the two Widogasts were their eyes, both blue like a lake on a perfect summer day. Despite their similarities, Una’s eyes shown with years of experience, and were framed by lines of laughter that spoke of a childhood and marriage that was happy despite her circumstances, while Caleb’s held a depth that his older relatives found unsettling in a child of his years.

That morning, his mother had sat with him in the main room of their two-room cottage, combing her fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tame his mass of curls and humming a song she used to sing to him when he was young. “You’ll make us proud, I know you will,” she had said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I couldn’t be more proud of you already.”

The sun had risen, and by then, his father was awake as well, though few words were exchanged amongst them, as Leofric was known to be a man of few words, even with his family. It wasn’t until he and Una had seen to the morning chores (Una insisted that there was no need for Caleb to do chores that morning, as it was his special day, and he must save his energy for the journey to the Academy) that he greeted his son with a firm clap on the shoulder.

The Widogasts sat down for what would be their last breakfast together for a while, eating, as they usually did, in silence. Silence around the table was not unusual, but that day, there had been a weight in the air, a weight Caleb felt settling on his shoulders. Had his aunt been there, Caleb was almost certain that she would have found some omen in the silence that surrounded their table that morning, but she wasn’t, and Caleb knew it was probably for the better. While he loved his aunt, and had a healthy respect for the gods, he was not one for superstition, as he knew books could explain most things that his aunt tried to attribute to omens.

It was another hour before they were due to meet the representative from the Solstryce Academy in the village square for his send-off, and, as soon as Caleb was dressed to his mother’s satisfaction, the three Widogasts set off for the village proper.

Caleb committed the sight of his parents’ cottage to memory, holding it close to his heart as he turned his back to the place of his childhood. It was a memory he would keep close to him in the coming years, as no doubt his studies would prevent him from returning to Blumenthal until his graduation.

Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.

He remembered the send-off that the village had planned for him.

It wasn’t anything grand, as many of the villagers were poor—better off than the Widogasts, but poor nonetheless—but it was enough to remind Caleb of the hopes that were riding on him. If he failed, he will have let down the entire village, and he would never be able to show his face here again.

Upon his arrival, his parents had remained close. His father was beaming from ear-to-ear, chest swelling with pride as he presented his boy to the representative from the Academy, while his mother hung back, a gentle hand on her son’s shoulder. He wasn’t used to the attention, and part of him wanted to shrink away from it all and leave the village without any sort of fanfare.

He remembered bowing to the Academy’s representative, and the squeeze of his father’s hand on his shoulder as Caleb was ushered forward.

“Make us proud, son,” the man had said, locking eyes with his son.

His mother had simply bent down and touched her forehead to his, whispering into the space shared between him that he was her son, and she would always be proud of him, no matter what, and she knew he would always make the right choices. Her blessing given, she pressed one final kiss to his forehead, like the good faeries in her many stories were said to have done upon parting with their champions.

Goodbyes and blessings exchanged, Caleb made his way to the representative’s side, his head held high. After all, he was the pride and joy of Blumenthal, the boy with the magic gift, a gift that had to be taught so that he could return and help his people to prosper. As much as he disliked the fanfare around his leaving, he knew he was expected to play a certain part. He had to show he was grateful, after all, that the people of the village believed in his ability enough to stake their livelihoods on it, and show them, that even as nervous as he was, he would make his parents, as well as his village, proud.

Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.

Those first few months at the Academy had been terrible.

While Caleb delighted in every lesson and assignment, treating the knowledge available to him as one might treat a feast, he missed what he had left behind.

Many nights were spent lying awake in his bed, visualizing his mother’s face, her laugh, or the way she always tried to tame his wild curls. He thought of his father, who had never said much, who had loved him and his mother, and who was counting on Caleb to make him proud. He missed the early mornings on the farm, doing chores alongside his mother, or visiting with his aunts and cousins, or sneaking away from both activities in order to read borrowed books in the glade that was only half an hour’s walk from their fields.

For a while, he contemplated running away, and returning to that life, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to. He had to stay here, within the walls of the Solstryce Academy, and make his family proud. He had to make sure that every copper given towards his education did not go wasted, he had to make sure that he would graduate top of his class.

It wasn’t a bad problem to have, as he adored studying, and was a voracious reader, with a mind as sharp as a knife (a trait many of his professors pointed out as a trait most unusual in the young these days), and, somewhere in his second year at the Academy, he caught the attention of one particular professor, Trent Ikithon.

One day—Caleb remembered well that it had been the day of the Harvest Close festival, as his fellow students were rushing to partake in the festivities of the grand holiday—Ikithon had asked to see Caleb in his office. After assuring Caleb that he wasn’t in trouble for anything, Ikithon had led Caleb into his office, offering the young man a seat and a cup of tea before he himself had sat down behind a grand wooden desk, stacked high with ancient tomes and carefully arranged scrolls and stones of varying characteristics.

It was then that Ikithon expressed to Caleb the promise he saw in the young man, and extended the offer of private tutelage—at no extra charge, of course, in fact, Ikithon’s mentorship would substitute Caleb’s education entirely, and would guarantee him early graduation from the Academy with the highest honors.

Caleb, at first, had been wary. As a farmer’s son, he knew there were no such thing as shortcuts, and if someone offered you one, you had every reason to doubt them. And Caleb was inquisitive by nature, so of course he thought to ask why he was chosen, out of all the students in his year? Why not Marya Nikolvena, the girl from Zadash who was just as smart as he was, with a father whose position would assure her rise to importance once her years here were through? Why the son of farmers from a village that was as good as the middle of nowhere to the people of the Academy, and why not her? What made him special?

“Because you are a quick learner,” Ikithon had said, “and while I do not doubt Miss Nikolvena’s skill, she lacks the discipline you have so clearly demonstrated, as well as the hunger for knowledge you so clearly possess. She has nothing to prove to anyone, while you, you, Caleb Widogast, you’re here to make something of yourself, because you have the hopes of an entire village riding on your success here, and I want to help you achieve that success.”

Again, Caleb found himself asking, “Why me?”

Ikithon had only laughed—it was a deep, almost rumbling sound, one that sent a shiver down Caleb’s spine. “Because you will work to achieve your goals,” he had said. “You know that the world won’t hand you power on a silver plate—you’ve got to work for it, work to earn it, work to control it, and maintain it. I want to oversee that work, and show you how to cultivate your power, to make your mother and father proud.”

Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.

Caleb wished he could forget what happened next.

Caleb had ignored all common sense and accepted Ikithon’s offer, so intent was he on reaching his full potential as a wizard in order to make his family proud, that he didn’t see the warning signs.

In the years spent in Ikithon’s country estate, never once did Caleb consider Ikithon’s punishments for failing to meet certain milestones to fall into the category of abuse. After all, he was no stranger to strict teachers, and he knew with grim certainty that his father’s father had not been as forgiving a parent as Leofric had been to Caleb. If anything, the punishments pushed Caleb to learn more, and to learn faster.

Caleb was not alone in Ikithon’s estate. There were two other students there, much older than he, and from slightly more well-off families, but from Brumenthal, just like him. Had he been their age, perhaps he would have played with them as children, but he knew their siblings and knew their families.

There was Astrid, the stern-faced daughter of the town’s healer, with her dark hair and dark eyes. Just like her mother, Astrid was skilled with potions, and could identify nearly anything placed before her, though, while Caleb knew Astrid’s mother to heal, he only knew Astrid to harm with the concoctions she learned to brew. She didn’t rely on her potions entirely, though it was clear from their various assessments that she was more comfortable using them, over her spells.

Despite her stern features and tendency to get swept up in competition, Astrid was never unkind to Caleb. She shared with him the names of different healing herbs and flowers, and often let him practice his less damaging spells on her, like when he was struggling to perfect Friends, and she offered to tutor him.

There was also Eardwulf, who still retained a head of wild, dark curls as Caleb’s had begun to lengthen into waves, whose green eyes glittered like the emerald set on Ikithon’s ring, and whose spirit didn’t seem to bow to the harshness of their new tutelage. It was Eardwulf who Caleb had fallen in love with, Eardwulf, whose cool touch told of his affinity for ice magic (as well as his stubbornness to wearing gloves once the seasons turned), but Caleb didn’t mind.

He remembered nights when the two had laid together, too exhausted from Ikithon’s rigorous training methods to do much else than just lie there. They were careful never to be found together, as Caleb feared what wrath they might incur if their tutor (or even Astrid, for that matter), were to find out. Besides, Caleb knew he wasn’t there to fall in love. He was there to learn, and reach his full potential as a wizard, so that his family and his village would be proud of him and his friends.

Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.

He remembered the first time he had killed a man.

Then, he had called it execution, because the man was a traitor to the Empire—or so he’d been told— because the order given to him by Ikithon was to execute the man for crimes against the Empire. Caleb had never been told the nature of those crimes, only that they were treasonous acts against the Empire, and men like him could not be allowed to live.

He remembered reciting the words he knew well, and pulling back his hand, as if he were about to toss a ball across a field, but instead of a solid ball of hide in his hand, there was a ball of fire. It didn’t burn him; by learning to summon fire, he had learnt how to handle it, and it felt like nothing more than an insect crawling across his palm, a little warm and tickling his skin slightly. He remembered holding the ball of flame there for a moment before directing it towards the man, who watched his young executioner with pleading eyes.

Please, his eyes seemed to say, Don’t do this.

But the fire had enveloped him before Caleb had time to second guess himself, and he knew that he had no choice. His duty was to the Empire, the Empire that had given him his education, that had protected him and his parents for so long, and the Empire that was now giving himself a chance to prove himself.

He had to make Ikithon proud, and to make Ikithon proud would be to make the Empire proud, and then surely, his parents would be proud of him for all he had achieved.

Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.

He didn’t remember learning that his parents were traitors.

The memory was there, but, as some memories often were, the memory was fuzzy, undefined. Caleb couldn’t remember what about it in his childhood told him his parents were traitors to the Empire, the Empire that protected and provided for them, all while asking for next to nothing in return, except for loyalty.

He remembered the day it dawned on him, that his parents were traitors, and he remembers confiding in Eardwulf, who had confessed the same realization, and then mentioned how Astrid had come to the same conclusion about her parents. Caleb asked what they were to do about it. Surely all traitors had to meet the same fate in the end, right? Perhaps they were better off reporting it to Ikithon, who would give the task to soldiers stationed near to their villages, and the three wizards could sleep soundly, knowing they’d done the right thing.

The three students resolved to bring it to the attention of their tutor, hoping that he would deal with it, and they would receive praise for their loyalty.

Ikithon, it seemed, knew this already, though why he would keep it from his students escaped even quick-witted Astrid. The wizard decided that, rather than entrust it to the local garrison, perhaps he and his students ought to travel to Blumenthal themselves, and that the dispensing of justice be the final act with which they prove their loyalty to the Empire.

Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.

He wouldn’t ever forget that night.

They had arrived in Blumenthal unannounced, and so it was only natural that when they visited Astrid’s mother, who was overjoyed to see her daughter grown and boasting as much power as she did. She didn’t think twice about inviting Ikithon and his students to dinner, or about the fact Ikithon assured her there was no need to let Caleb and Eardwulf’s parents know they had returned—he didn’t want to cause undue stress when they would be here for quite some time as it was.

Astrid’s mother had always been a kind woman, and so she had welcomed the wizards to her table. She was so intent on listening to Ikithon’s stories (lies, for the most part) about her daughter’s training, that she didn’t notice Astrid slip into the kitchen.

Caleb of course followed right behind her, under the pretense of fetching the water pitcher from the separate room (a luxury he hadn’t had growing up, and he’d be lying if he said he envied Astrid for it), and found his classmate slipping poison into the pork her mother had purchased to mark the occasion. He didn’t think to stop her—after all, Astrid’s mother was a traitor, and the punishment for treason was death—and accepted her warning not to touch the pork with a firm nod before he left.

Not an hour later, he watched as Astrid’s mother choked on the poison her daughter had placed in her meal. He saw Astrid’s face, devoid of any remorse or repentance for what she had done, her stern features showing only cold determination as she watched her mother die.

Next came Eardwulf’s home, a well-thatched house just off the main square. His parents welcomed them into their home, greeting each student with a firm handshake and a clap on the shoulder, praising their dedication and diligence. They spoke of how they could already see the man Eardwulf had become, how powerful he must be.

No sooner had they spoke those words, that Eardwulf let loose two jagged spears of ice—one for each traitorous parent—and skewered his mother and father through the heart. While his expression was nowhere near what Astrid’s had been not an hour ago, there was still the grim determination of an executioner in his eyes, darkening the verdant greens that Caleb had fallen in love with.

Finally, it was Caleb’s turn.

For the entire walk to his parents’ cottage, Caleb felt a knot twist in his stomach as he found himself questioning what he was about to do. Was he truly doing the right thing in killing his parents? Surely there were other ways to prove his loyalty to the Empire, ways that didn’t include killing his parents.

He was certain they weren’t traitors. Sure, his father had been known to grumble here and there about the state of things, and his mother sometimes made a jest around the family table about the way things were run, but never had they said anything that would count as dissent, at least not that he could remember. His mother was always courteous to the officers who came to take the census and collect the annual taxes and tithes, and his father knew better than to start land disputes with the local garrisons.

No, his parents were traitors. He couldn’t put a finger on why, but he knew that they were. There were memories somewhere that betrayed his family, and he knew to shelter them was to commit treason himself.

Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.

He remembered standing in front of his parents’ cottage.

Ikithon, Astrid, and Eardwulf stood behind him, watching, waiting for him to set the cottage alight like the tinderbox he knew it was, killing his mother and father, who were no doubt sleeping inside, and prove his loyalty in one final act. They said nothing, they only waited. Caleb remembered the feeling of Ikitihon’s expectant gaze upon his back, hearing Astrid cluck her tongue in disappointment, and feeling the soft looks of encouragement from Eardwulf.

Taking a deep breath of the familiar air, Caleb drew his arm back, as he’d done so many times before, and started speaking the words, forcing them past the lump in his throat as he focused on the task at hand. He felt the fire appear in his hand, warm and familiar, licking up and down his arm, but never harming him. This fire was his, and would never cause him harm, it would only bring harm to the enemies of the Empire, invaders and traitors alike.

Traitors like his parents.

Without another thought, and too afraid that he might second guess himself, Caleb hurled the fire at the cottage, aiming first for the too-dry thatch that he knew would be gone in seconds. He summoned another handful of fire and threw it at the walls, then another, for good measure. The cottage was old, and would burn easily once it got started.

He watched the cottage go up in flames, the orange and red tongues lapping at the walls, devouring the thatch before finding their way indoors. Once inside, it would begin to consume the ceiling beams. He remembered his father telling Caleb (many years ago, many, many years ago, it seemed) how he’d built the cottage in order to woo his mother, to persuade her father that Una would be happy with him. Now he watched all of his father’s hard work go up in smoke as the brilliance of the flames ate away at it.

The flames were mesmerizing, so methodical in their work that Caleb found himself drifting into a sort of trance, a trance that was only broken by the sound of a woman screaming. It was his mother’s screm, he realized, and the flames’ spell seemed to break, along with something else inside of him.

He felt himself fall to the ground, clutching his head, muttering under his breath. He didn’t know what he was saying, and he was barely aware of anything outside of the flames that danced before him, consuming everything they touched, everything dear to him that he had allowed them to touch.

There was a firm hand on the collar of his coat, dragging him to his feet, someone was speaking to him, telling him how proud they were, but Caleb didn’t hear any of it. All he heard were the screams of his mother as she choked on smoke, murdered by her son, her son who she had always been so proud of.

Would she be proud if she knew her son had grown to be her executioner? Caleb doubted it—pride was not unconditional, pride had to be earned, and there he’d gone and thrown everything away. He was undeserving of his family’s pride, undeserving of his own pride, for what was he now, but a broken man, teetering on the edge of madness? There was no redemption for him, no god to save him, no penance for what he’d done.

All this and yet, a single thought reverberated throughout his mind as he became unaware of the world around him.

Mother and father, I hope I do not disappoint you.