The Last Field Assignment
By Micah Siemens
When the Grand Master of the Argent Conclave announced his retirement, the towers of the High Arcanum fell silent.
No bells rang. No familiars cried out. Even the ever-burning braziers along the Hall of Binding dimmed, as if magic itself leaned closer to listen.
The Grand Master stood before three apprentices—no longer children, not yet masters—each robed in the gray of unfinished work.
“For ten years,” he said, his voice like parchment and thunder, “you will walk the world without my hand to guide you. What you do in that time will decide whether you return as mages… or merely as scholars of what might have been.”
From within his sleeve, he drew three sigil-scrolls, each sealed with living wax that shifted and breathed.
To the first apprentice, Althain, quick-eyed and restless, he handed the largest scroll.
“Within this are ten foundational spells. They are versatile, dangerous, and incomplete. Develop them. Refine them. Let them grow beyond their bindings.”
To the second, Seris, quiet and methodical, he handed a slimmer scroll.
“Within this are five spells. Fewer tools require sharper thought. Use them well.”
Finally, to the third apprentice, Corren, careful and inward-looking, he handed a scroll no wider than a finger.
“Within this is one spell.”
Corren’s hands trembled as he received it.
“One?” he asked before he could stop himself.
The Grand Master’s eyes softened—but did not change their mind.
“One spell is not nothing,” he said. “And nothing is not an excuse.”
Then the Grand Master departed beyond the Veiled Pass, and the ten years began.
Althain vanished into the world like a spark into dry grass.
He joined dueling circles, studied under hedge-wizards, bartered spells with spirits who demanded riddles and scars as payment. He broke his own magic more times than he could count and rebuilt it stronger each time.
A spell of light became three variations: one that blinded, one that revealed truth, one that burned away illusion.
A spell of summoning learned to call not just creatures—but memories, echoes, and once, regret.
By the end of ten years, Althain carried twenty spells, each born from the bones of the original ten.
Seris chose a different path.
She settled in border villages where magic was rare but needed. She learned patience. She learned limits. She learned what happened when a spell failed and someone else paid the price.
Her five spells became precise instruments. A ward learned to recognize intent. A healing charm learned to take payment in exhaustion instead of blood. A shaping spell learned restraint.
When she returned, her grimoire held ten spells, each elegant, reliable, and deeply understood.
Corren went nowhere.
He wrapped his single spell in layers of protective sigils. He copied it again and again, storing versions in crystal, in ink, in memory.
He feared altering it. Feared breaking it. Feared discovering that the spell—and by extension, he himself—was not enough.
So he preserved it. Perfect. Untouched. Unused.
On the tenth year, the Grand Master returned.
The towers flared back to life. The Hall of Binding filled with gathered magi, all pretending not to watch too closely.
Althain stepped forward first, magic humming around him like a living thing.
“Master,” he said, bowing low, “you entrusted me with ten spells. I tested them in the wild places. I failed. I learned. I tried again. Here—” He opened his grimoire, pages unfolding impossibly. “—are twenty spells.”
The Grand Master smiled.
“Well forged,” he said. “You were faithful with complexity, and you made it fruitful. You are ready for greater mysteries. Enter the higher circles.”
Althain’s breath caught—not in pride, but relief.
Seris stepped forward next.
“Master,” she said, “you gave me five spells. I honed them through care and service. Here are ten.”
The Grand Master inclined his head.
“You were faithful in restraint,” he said. “You understood weight as well as power. You, too, are ready. Enter the higher circles.”
Seris bowed, her eyes shining.
Finally, Corren approached. He held out the small scroll with both hands.
“Master,” he said, “I knew your reputation. I feared your judgment. Magic is dangerous, and I did not wish to lose what you gave me. So I kept it safe. Here is the spell you entrusted to me—unchanged.”
The hall was very quiet. The Grand Master did not take the scroll immediately.
“Tell me,” he said gently, “did you ever cast it?”
Corren swallowed. “No, Master. But it is intact.”
“Did you ever test it?”
“No.”
“Did you ever try to make it better?”
Corren’s voice was barely audible. “No.”
The Grand Master finally took the scroll—and sighed.
“You feared failure more than barrenness,” he said. “You believed preservation was wisdom.”
He raised his voice so the hall could hear.
“This spell was not given to be guarded like a relic. It was given to be risked. Magic that is never used might as well not exist.”
He turned to Althain.
“Take this spell,” he said, handing it over. “You have shown that growth does not frighten you.”
Then he faced Corren once more.
“You studied safety,” the Grand Master said, “but never faith. You are not cast out—but you are not yet a master.”
Corren’s shoulders slumped, not in anger, but in understanding.
“Return,” the Grand Master finished, “and begin again. This time—cast the spell.”
And so it was recorded in the annals of the Conclave:
That power unused is power wasted,
that fear can be a kind of laziness,
and that the measure of a mage is not what they are given—
—but what they dare to become.
Leave a comment