Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (my reading book .txt) 📕

In response, there was a shudder throughout the platform, and four blocks of stone rose from the floor, forming square pillars. Those pillars, nearly twelve feet in height, began to move slowly around the perimeter of the platform. Standing as he was toward the center, it was like being in the midst of a giant machine, like an engine or a watch.

“Are they on tracks or something?” Milo asked, marveling at how they moved so smoothly and without the sounds of grating stone.

“They move because I tell them to,” Imrah answered, giving him a disgusted shake of her head. “And now you will too.”

The simple exercise was then explained: she would point at a pillar and tell him light, burn, or strike, and it was his task to do so.

“Sounds simple enough,” he said and instantly regretted it as a wicked smile spread over Imrah’s face.

Within a minute, he was wiping sweat out of his eyes.

Producing light was the easiest, of course, but even that required focus since Imrah was not satisfied unless the light struck the pillar squarely. The pressure of her insistent commands and the moving pillars threatening to slide away before he could bring his faculties to bear was very frustrating, and that frustration was the enemy of focus.

From there, things only became more complicated and dangerous with the burning and the striking.

Despite what he had thought, channeling the necessary essence to ignite flames from the skull was more difficult than it had been during the Contest. Not being fueled by mortal danger was part of it, he was sure, but also the construction of the skull and the ingredients’ reactions within the leering cane topper played into it. Tightly channeled twin bolts of flame could be launched from the eye sockets, streaking out with blinding speed and force to strike and score stone. Driven with blunt force, the beak of the skull would open and a torrent of fire would emerge, like those Flammenwerfers he’d seen some of the Federated regiments using to clear trenches. The first time he discovered this, he’d missed twice with the flame bolts against his chosen pillar. In his anger, he bore down with his will, then nearly fell over in shock as an inferno emerged from the end of the cane.

“Control,” was all Imrah had said before repeating which pillar she wanted to be burned.

Activating the physical enhancements of the fetish was even more terrifying.

First, it was a very different feeling than light or fire, coaxing the essence inward instead of outward, and second, the sensation of it working was very distracting, complicating things further. When he called on the alchemy within the cane to share its power, it rushed in with a burning chill that made his skin feel as though he was suffering a terrible fever across his entire body. It was not the empowering sensation he’d expected, and the first few times, he was so struck by the nauseous, shivering sensation he’d almost fallen over and adopted the fetal position.

For all that, when he finally moved, his body responded with amazing alacrity, and he sprang half a dozen feet in one stride to deliver a blow that powdered a hunk of stone the size of his fist. Despite the heavy blow, the polished stone shaft didn’t show a single sign of distress or damage.

By the time he finished, he was puffing and blowing, but also grinning from ear to ear. This was just scratching the surface of what he had to learn, and it was incredible. True, a firearm could do much the same without nearly as much mental effort, but that wasn’t the point. With a little bit of stone, bone, and whatever dwelt inside the skull cane, he’d conjured fire and given himself the ability to move with inhuman quickness and might. He could appear utterly harmless before springing into lethal action in the space of a thought...as long as he kept his focus, of course.

He imagined Colonel Jorge could find something useful for an agent like him to do.

As they walked back to their apartment, Ambrose muttered about his plans for the meal and whined about his dwindling supply of alcohol, but Milo’s thoughts were elsewhere.

In his mind’s eye, he imagined himself stalking through the dark, misty streets of Paris or London. No longer the ragged, lanky product of a war orphanage and rebellious criminality; he saw himself as an agent provocateur, dangerous and dapper. With utter confidence and a suave wardrobe to match, he would move through enemy territory, sowing chaos and disruption. Skull-topped cane tapping across the pavement in challenge, he’d busy himself befuddling enemy agents and dispatching threats to the German Army. By the time the Federated and Colonial regiments arrived, he’d be waiting to hand them the keys to victory before setting off on another daring adventure.

He’d return to Berlin every now and again, donning his crisp black greatcoat to meet with Colonel Jorge and receive secret medals for his discreet service to the Empire. After tucking such medals into his hidden sanctum, he would prowl the fine parties and balls of the great and good of the conquering Empire. He would drink and dance and gallivant with the best of them before duty and danger called once more. He’d plant a farewell kiss on his latest darling’s lips before slipping into the night with a dashing flourish and a mystic flash from his eyes.

Milo the Magus, Humanity’s First Wizard, Mystical Agent of the German Empire, the man who would bring victory and eventually the end to the Great War. He would be celebrated, loved, and...

Ambrose’s heavy arm slammed into Milo, knocking him out of his reverie and flat against the wall of the corridor.

He winced, and a curse slipped from Milo’s lips as his head knocked against the stone, but Ambrose’s arm held him fast.

“What’s going on?” Milo hissed, raising a hand to rub the back of his smarting head.

Ambrose turned toward him, a finger on his lips.

“Company,”