Introduction
In his youth, Opernus Prentigold was one of the mightiest wizards in the Sambian Empire, a hero of numerous wars against barbarian tribes, renowned for his awesome and terrifying magic powers. Even now, though his body has been ravaged by fire and old age, he remains an imposing figure. Standing before you, he is a spry, wiry old man, dressed in austere, plain black robes, whose only concession to the increasing curvature of his spine is to stoop but a little; it's clear from his proud bearing that he'd stand ramrod straight if he could. For the past thirty years, he has been the headmaster of the Tyrepheum Academy of the Magical Arts (and its affiliated College), ever since the mysterious disappearance of his predecessor, Galadan the Mystic. With his wizened face set in an expression of disapproval, he glances around the auditorium at this year's smattering of new students, of which you happen to be one. Whatever he sees evidently doesn't impress.
The earliest one can be admitted to the mages' school is at the age of eleven, but there are a handful of older pupils whose magical talents weren't discovered until relatively late, whose parents wanted to keep them at home for as long as possible before relinquishing them, or who had to wait an extra year to save up enough money to pay the school fees. Altogether, spread thinly across the three rows closest to the stage, forty new students have joined the school this year. Whether that's a good number, enough to meet the ever-growing demand for more battle mages, enchanters, and weather wardens you have no idea. It doesn't seem very many.
When Prentigold speaks, his voice is clear and cold, with a harsh edge of exasperation. 'Legend says that magic was a gift from the elder gods: they passed on their unwanted tools to us mere mortals. Or perhaps Telthalus the Trickster planted a seed of divine power within each of us, so that one day we might amuse him with our silly fumblings. Either way, the temples tell us that we should be grateful for this gift: we should be meek, humble, and endlessly praise the gods for whatever crumbs they see fit to drop from their table.'
He laughs. It is a plainly artificial laugh, signifying contempt. Some of the new pupils, eager to please, try to laugh with him, but he glares them into silence. 'I say we owe nothing to the gods,' he says, after a brief pause. 'All that I have accomplished, I achieved by my own hand, by dint of painstaking effort and strength of will. When I have triumphed, it has been as a result of my hard work, courage, and stubbornness. What I have wrought is mine, no one else's, and I shall defend it against all comers!' With his face twisted in a wrathful snarl, he bellows the last few words of this declaration. Then, subsiding, he takes a deep breath. 'There are a great many wizards who have similar beliefs. Magic is just a tool we have learned to use, through millennia of study, practice, and experimentation. With it, a man can warp reality, reshape the world around him, tame the laws of nature and bring them to heel. That's what you're here to learn.' He makes a sweeping gesture with one hand. 'Like this.'
All around him, the stage changes: it becomes a miniature version of the city of Tyrepheum. As far as you can tell, it is perfect in every detail: there are houses, shops, temples to various gods; bridges, docks, the river running through; high walls and guard towers; the mansions of the nobility; masses of tiny people hurrying through the cobbled streets; and so much more. Even if you had hours to examine it, you think there'd still be more to discover. But you don't have nearly that long. After only a few minutes, Prentigold winces, rolls his shoulders, and closes his eyes, briefly. The illusory city vanishes as abruptly as it appeared.
Wearily, Prentigold continues his speech: 'For as long as my concentration lasts, my illusions might as well be real. In a way, they
are real, for as long as the spell persists. But as soon as I look away, they're gone. To make a spell last longer than a few seconds, you need a ritual. When the Elder Gods built this world, they based it on rituals: spring, summer, autumn, winter; day and night; the endless cycles of nature. While you live, your body's natural rituals keep you alive: the drumming of your heartbeat; the rhythms of your breathing; the constant need to eat, digest, and excrete. And so on.' He laughs again, unpleasantly. 'Everything is ritual. This entire world and everything in it. You can do some very impressive things with rituals, if you know how. For instance, the Golden Men of Chamdara banished death from their lands and made themselves immortal with a ritual that lasted for thousands of years...'
He pauses, letting his voice trail off into silence. Then, smiling thinly, he says, 'But all things must end, eventually. Anything that disrupts the ritual – even for a moment – will break the spell, so be careful of that. At this school, we'll teach you how to set up rituals as well and reliably as possible, but… alas, entropy will have its say.' Another deep breath. 'Still, a wizard must be versatile. On the other end of the scale, if you don't want spells that last a long time, if you only need them to last a few moments – just a spurt and a splatter – you'll learn that here as well. A truly skilled wizard can strip a ritual down to the basics, reduce it to a few words and concepts held in the mind, casting spells with barely a thought. That level of skill is something you should all aspire to.
'You are all here because, on some level, you deserve to be. You have a spark of potential which, here at this school, we will fan into a flame. If you're willing to work hard, spend time studying, and are determined to succeed. You could be great, you could be mighty, you could become a legend that will ring out through the ages. Or you could die. You could be erased from existence. This place has a tendency to weed out the weaklings.' Prentigold glowers at the pupils sitting in front of him. They're hanging on to his every word, slack-jawed and awestruck. Maybe by his sheer presence, or else they're just overwhelmed by everything he's said so far, struggling to take it all in. What he has said hardly seems age-appropriate for a room full of mostly eleven-year-olds. Evidently, he has high expectations of his pupils; he demands adult-level intelligence and maturity from all of them, no matter how old they are. 'Yes… think of this school as a hungry monster: it consumes the careless, feeds upon the foolish, and ingurgitates the incompetent,' he says with a sneer. 'Beware.'
For a moment, he turns away. Then, he gives a start, glances around the room again, and says, 'Oh, and… welcome to the academy. I hope your time here will be most useful.' Another thin smile. 'At this point, I believe it is customary to wish you good luck. I won't do that. You will fail or succeed on your own merits. Instead, I wish you fair reward for your efforts, fair punishment for your sins: justice, in other words. May you get everything you deserve.' The way he says it, it sounds like a curse.
Finally, he leaves the room. No one moves for several minutes after he's gone, just in case he comes back.
