Common Blood

Chapter 1: The Dust of Ages

The broom handle had worn smooth in Piotr's hands over the seven years he'd worked at the Academy of High Sorcery. He knew every corridor, every flagstone, every shadow that pooled in corners where candlelight couldn't reach. He knew which professors left their chambers in disarray and which students tracked mud from the gardens. He knew the rhythm of this ancient place as intimately as he knew his own heartbeat.

What he didn't know—what no one had known for three hundred years—was what lay buried beneath the rubble in the collapsed eastern storage chamber.

The ceiling had given way during the night, sometime between the third bell and dawn. Old Marta, who oversaw the cleaning staff, had found him before breakfast and pressed a dusty rag into his hands.

"The headmistress wants it cleared before the Autumn Convocation," she'd said, her weathered face creased with sympathy. "That gives you four days."

Piotr had only nodded. Four days to clear a chamber that had been sealed for decades, filled now with collapsed timber and shattered stone. It was impossible work, but he'd learned long ago that impossible was simply another word for "assigned to Piotr."

He'd started at dawn, working by the pale light that filtered through the gap in the ceiling. The air was thick with centuries of dust, and he'd wrapped a cloth around his nose and mouth to keep from choking. The work was slow—shifting broken beams, hauling fragments of masonry to the corridor outside, sweeping the endless grit into piles that seemed to regenerate as quickly as he removed them.

By midday, he'd cleared perhaps a quarter of the chamber. His shoulders ached, and his fingers were raw from gripping rough stone. He paused to drink from the waterskin he'd brought, surveying the destruction around him.

The storage chamber had once held artifacts, he realized. Broken display cases jutted from the rubble like the ribs of some great beast. Shattered crystal crunched beneath his feet. Whatever treasures had been kept here were likely destroyed now, ground to powder by the weight of the fallen ceiling.

He returned to work, methodical as always. Shift, lift, carry, sweep. The rhythm of labor had been his companion since childhood, when his mother had first put a broom in his hands and taught him that honest work was its own dignity.

"We may not have magic in our blood," she'd told him, "but we have something better. We have purpose."

She'd been dead eight years now, taken by the wasting fever that swept through the common quarters of the city. Piotr still thought of her every day, still heard her voice when the noble students sneered at him in the corridors, still felt her hand on his shoulder when the work seemed endless.

The afternoon light was fading when his broom struck something that didn't feel like stone.

Piotr frowned, crouching to examine the debris more closely. He brushed away dust and fragments of mortar, revealing what appeared to be a length of dark wood. At first he thought it was merely another piece of broken beam, but as he cleared more rubble, he saw that it was too smooth, too carefully shaped.

A staff, perhaps? No—it was too short for that. A wand, then, though unlike any he'd seen the students carry. Theirs were elegant things, purchased from certified wandmakers and inscribed with family crests. This one was simple, almost rough, carved from wood so dark it seemed to drink the light.

He should report it, he knew. Any artifact found on Academy grounds belonged to the Academy, and common-born servants weren't permitted to handle magical items. The rules were clear and had been drilled into him since his first day of employment.

But something about the wand called to him. It seemed to pulse with a faint warmth, even buried beneath the cold stone. Without thinking, Piotr reached out and wrapped his fingers around it.

The world exploded into light.

He was falling, rising, burning, freezing—all at once and none at all. Colors he had no names for cascaded through his vision. He heard voices, thousands of them, speaking in languages he didn't know but somehow understood. He felt the weight of centuries pressing against his mind, the accumulated wisdom and sorrow of generations.

And beneath it all, a single voice, clear as a bell:

*At last.*

Piotr screamed.

The light faded as quickly as it had come, leaving him on his knees in the rubble, gasping for breath. The wand was still in his hand—no, not just in his hand. It was *part* of his hand, fused to his palm as if it had always been there. He could feel it humming against his skin, a constant vibration that seemed to resonate with his very bones.

He tried to drop it. His fingers wouldn't obey.

Panic seized him. He grabbed the wand with his other hand and pulled, but it wouldn't budge. He scraped it against the stone floor, tried to pry his fingers loose, even bit at his own knuckles in desperation. Nothing worked. The wand remained fixed in his grip, warm and patient, as if waiting for him to calm down.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no."

He knew what this was. Every child in the kingdom knew the stories of magical bonding—the rare phenomenon where a wand chose its wielder and refused all others. It was the mark of a true mage, a sign of extraordinary potential.

It was also supposed to be impossible for someone like him.

Piotr stared at the wand in his hand, his heart pounding. The nobles would never believe him. They would think he'd stolen it, or worse, that he'd somehow corrupted it with his common blood. They would have him executed for handling a magical artifact without permission.

He had to hide it. He had to find a way to remove it. He had to—

"What is that light?"

The voice came from the corridor outside. Piotr's blood ran cold. He scrambled to his feet, shoving his hand behind his back, but it was too late. The wand was glowing now, a soft silver radiance that pulsed in time with his racing heart.

A figure appeared in the doorway. Tall, imperious, dressed in robes of midnight blue embroidered with silver thread. Lady Katrin, Headmistress of the Academy of High Sorcery, regarded him with eyes like chips of winter ice.

"You," she said. "The cleaning boy. What have you done?"

Piotr opened his mouth, but no words came. The wand pulsed brighter, and Lady Katrin's eyes widened.

"That light," she breathed. "That pattern. It cannot be."

She strode forward, her robes sweeping through the dust, and seized Piotr's arm. She wrenched his hand from behind his back, and for a moment, they both stared at the wand.

In the silver glow, Piotr could see markings he hadn't noticed before—runes carved into the dark wood, ancient symbols that seemed to writhe and dance. Lady Katrin's face went pale.

"The Wand of Leofric," she whispered. "The Founder's wand. Lost for three hundred years."

She looked up at Piotr, and there was something in her eyes that might have been fear.

"Give it to me," she commanded. "Now."

"I can't," Piotr said. His voice came out as a croak. "It won't—I tried to let go, but it won't—"

"Give it to me!" Lady Katrin grabbed the wand and pulled. Pain lanced through Piotr's hand, and he cried out, but the wand didn't move. It remained fixed in his grip, the silver glow intensifying.

Lady Katrin released him and stepped back. Her face had gone from pale to ashen.

"It's bonded," she said. "The wand has bonded to you."

"I didn't mean—I just touched it, I didn't know—"

"Silence." The word cracked like a whip. Lady Katrin's composure was returning, her fear hardening into something colder. "Do you have any idea what you've done, boy? The Wand of Leofric hasn't accepted a bearer since the Founder himself. It's the most powerful artifact in the Academy's history, and it's bonded to a common-born *servant*."

"I'm sorry," Piotr said desperately. "I'll do anything—there must be a way to undo it—"

"There is no way." Lady Katrin's voice was flat. "A bonded wand cannot be taken by force. It cannot be removed by magic. It remains with its bearer until death." She paused, and something flickered in her eyes. "Until death."

Piotr understood her meaning. His stomach dropped.

"Please," he said. "I'm not a mage. I'm nobody. I just clean floors. I don't want any trouble."

"What you want is irrelevant." Lady Katrin turned away, her robes swirling. "Guards! Guards, to me!"

Within moments, the corridor was filled with armored figures bearing the Academy's crest. They surrounded Piotr, their hands on their sword hilts, their eyes fixed on the glowing wand.

"Take him to the detention cells," Lady Katrin ordered. "Touch nothing. Let no one speak to him until I return."

"My lady," one of the guards ventured, "what has he done?"

Lady Katrin looked back at Piotr, and her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"He has become a problem," she said. "One that I intend to solve."

They marched him through corridors he'd swept a thousand times, past students who stopped and stared, past professors who murmured in astonishment. The wand's glow had faded to a soft shimmer, but it was still visible, still impossible to hide.

The detention cells were in the basement of the eastern tower, a place Piotr had never been asked to clean. The guards shoved him into a small stone room with a narrow cot and a barred window that looked out onto nothing but rock. The door clanged shut behind him, and he heard the heavy click of a lock.

Piotr sank onto the cot and stared at the wand in his hand.

*What have I done?*

The wand pulsed gently, almost comfortingly, but Piotr found no comfort in it. He was a dead man. Lady Katrin had made that clear enough. The only question was whether she would have him executed publicly or arrange a quiet accident.

He thought of his mother, of her gentle hands and her soft voice. He thought of the life he'd built for himself, humble as it was—the small room in the servants' quarters, the friends he'd made among the other cleaners, the satisfaction of work well done.

All of it gone now, swept away by a single touch.

The hours passed slowly. No one came. No food, no water, no explanation. Piotr watched the light fade through the tiny window and tried not to think about what morning might bring.

Sometime in the night, the wand began to hum.

It was a low sound, almost below the threshold of hearing, but Piotr felt it vibrating through his palm and up his arm. And with the humming came... something else. Images, flickering at the edges of his vision. A man with kind eyes and work-roughened hands, standing before a crowd of people in simple clothing. A stone being laid, a foundation being built. A dream taking shape in mortar and magic.

*The Academy was not always thus.*

Piotr jerked upright. The voice was in his head, but it wasn't his own. It was older, deeper, resonant with power and sorrow.

*I built these halls for all who carried the gift, regardless of birth. I carved this wand from the heartwood of the World Tree to ensure my vision would endure.*

The images shifted. The man with kind eyes grew older, his face lined with worry. Around him, the Academy changed—the simple robes replaced with fine silks, the diverse students giving way to noble children with sneering faces.

*They twisted my dream. They made it a fortress of privilege, a temple to blood and birth. And when I tried to stop them...*

Darkness. Struggle. A flash of betrayal.

*They sealed my wand away and rewrote history. They made me a noble in their records, erased my common birth, claimed my legacy as their own.*

The images faded, leaving Piotr breathless and shaking.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

*I am Leofric. I am the echo of what was. And you, Piotr of no house, are the first in three hundred years to carry my conviction in your heart.*

"I don't understand."

*You will. In time, you will understand everything. But for now, know this: the wand chose you because you are worthy. Not because of your blood, but because of your spirit. They will try to destroy you for it. You must not let them.*

The humming faded, and the voice went silent. Piotr sat in the darkness, the wand warm against his palm, and wondered if he was going mad.

But mad or not, one thing was certain: come morning, everything would change.