Book of Magick
In a tower soaked with blood and shadow, a dying dark wizard meets the wrath of a young mage torn between vengeance and virtue.
As Autumn turns to Winter, Idrago, master of forbidden magick, lies broken atop the Stone Tower, the last stronghold of Chaos. Robin Wisley, the boy sworn to end him, climbs toward destiny—wounded, haunted, and holding the power to kill or forgive. But as arrow meets bow and hatred threatens to eclipse mercy, an unexpected voice echoes from the past.
Three months earlier, a quiet hunt in the cursed land of MireWood set everything in motion. What they found there should have remained hidden. Light and dark collide in this grim tale of legacy, revenge, and the moment when power must bow to conscience.
Chapter One (preview)
The old wizard lay on his back atop the Stone Tower, his chest rising and falling in ragged, shallow gasps as he fought to breathe through punctured lungs. An arrow jutted from his left side, and for a moment, he simply stared at it—not in fear, but with an odd, detached admiration for the craftsmanship. His eyes followed the shaft towards the tip, where it sliced clean through his mage’s cloak, shattered bone, and buried itself deep within his lung.
A rook’s cry echoed from the battlements, breaking his trance. Agony surged back into his body like a wave crashing against stone, accompanied by the grim certainty that death was near.
He had fought with everything he had to defend the tower—unleashing forbidden dark magick from the Realm of Chaos. He’d summoned horrors, twisted spells, and woven barriers of shadow. Even conventional defences were employed, but the young mage who had attacked before dawn had proven too clever, too relentless to hold back.
Idrago lay bleeding and broken, listening to the laboured groans of Robin Wisley climbing the narrow stone stairwell. Why was the boy taking so long? Then he remembered the poisoned dagger he had driven into the youth during their earlier skirmish. Perhaps it had struck true after all. The boy had worn a light armoured jerkin—an odd choice for a wizard. True wizards didn’t wear armour; it suggested doubt, a lack of faith in their power to deflect mortal threats.
He briefly considered an ambush, like before, when the dark magick of Opacity had allowed him to strike from the shadows. But now he could summon no spells, and he lacked the strength to even rise. Blood soaked the stones beneath him, his life draining away with every breath.
Wisley emerged from the stairwell on his knees, visibly wounded. If Idrago could stall him, or appeal to his compassion, perhaps he could finish him before slipping into death himself.
Their eyes met.
Idrago saw no mercy.
Wisley forced himself upright and stood over the fallen wizard. Idrago raised a trembling hand in a final plea. The young mage ignored it, unstrapping the war bow from his back. He searched his quiver—empty. For a fleeting moment, Idrago felt a rush of relief. But then Wisley’s gaze shifted, locking on the arrow buried in Idrago’s side.
No. Not that.
Wisley reached for it.
Pain, white-hot and unbearable, tore through Idrago as the arrow was slowly drawn from his flesh. He screamed—an involuntary, tortured sound. Wisley's expression remained stone. There was no cruelty in it—just duty. And perhaps that was worse.
So this is the mercy of the Light? Idrago thought bitterly. Hypocrisy dressed in righteousness.
The arrowhead emerged, slick with dark red and crimson blood, and dripped onto the stone. Wisley nocked it to the bowstring.
For the first time in his life, Idrago felt true fear.
He raised a hand again, a pathetic gesture of submission. Wisley brushed it aside. He drew the bow, full tension, the bloodied arrow aimed directly between Idrago’s eyes.
Three months earlier…
Only in the perpetual gloom of MireWood could daylight disappear so completely. Though the sun hung high in the summer sky, beneath the ancient oak canopy, it might as well have been midnight. The hunting party moved silently. They had been tracking their quarry for over two hours. The deeper they went, the darker it grew. The creature knew it was being hunted—moving slowly, carefully, without a sound. But so too did the two young hunters, who had learned to read the woods like a second language. Their father followed a short distance behind, saying nothing. He allowed them to make mistakes and learn from them. He had taught them woodcraft since they could walk, and now, watching them work the trail, he felt a quiet pride. If only their mother could see them now. They would survive the coming winter. She would have been proud.
Thirty paces ahead, the stag stood frozen. It raised its head, sniffing the nearly still air. Then came the scent of danger. Humans. Too close. Its ears flicked, heart racing. But before it could flee, another scent: smoke. More hunters. The instinct to flee overcame it, and it bolted—hooves pounding over the mossy earth. The boys knew it had made a mistake. Now the trail would be easier to follow. They prepared to give chase, but their father laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder. He was staring into the gloom—not after the deer, but somewhere else. The boys paused. Then they felt it too. A stillness had fallen over the forest. No birdsong. No rustle of small animals. Just silence—and something else. A low vibration in their gut. Unease. Unnatural. The kind of dread that couldn’t be seen, only felt.
The ground beneath them began to rise. The incline was subtle at first, then steeper. This part of MireWood was two days' walk from home, in lands no one claimed. No lord wanted it. The terrain was rough, the stories darker. Then came the sound: a drum. Low. Rhythmic. Distant, but drawing nearer. It pulsed in time with Robin’s heartbeat. Without a word, the father raised his hand. Stop. The boys obeyed. They knew better than to question him. He said nothing, but Robin could read his eyes. Whatever lay ahead, they weren’t meant to see it. But something pulled Robin forward—an invisible tether, as if the drumbeat itself had taken root in his chest. He moved without thought, not even glancing to see if his father or brother followed. The path grew steeper. The drums louder. A glow—pale and flickering—appeared ahead.
Robin did not stop.