Chapter Twenty

A frail old man on a wicker chair at the far end of the room, hunched over a desk, his quill moving in a frantic pace as if what he was writing is in dire need to be composed and hidden away.

He barely looked up as small timid footsteps approached the desk, accompanied with a trembling shadow cast over the desk, sobs threatening to escape from the visitor. 

"What did I tell you about playing when you haven't finished your studies?" he asked, more like a reminder as he continued writing, eyes fixated on the parchment in front of him.

"When will I have the chance to enjoy life like those other kids?" a small petulant voice asked, and he slowly raised his head to look at the child he had raised for so many years. "All I've ever done since I could read was pore over dusty scrolls, and recite some useless spells that would never even matter."

"And how did you say that what you've read is useless?" he asked, as he st