The Spark In the Dark

Linion Square bustled with life. Merchants shouted above the clatter of carts and hooves, while the smells of roasted nuts, leather, and bread mingled in the warm air. Children darted between stalls draped with red and gold cloth, weaving through the crowd like quick fish.

Topper manned his table of antiques full of candlesticks, cracked cups, and faded paintings. He was tall for his age, thin, with a neat buzz cut and warm brown eyes. A faint mustache curled on his upper lip, and he was proud of it even though most people hardly noticed. His goods looked ordinary, but no one knew his secret. Topper was a wizard.

He had discovered his gift at four years old with a wooden eagle his father carved. “I wish you could come alive,” he whispered, and the toy sprouted feathers, blinked, and flew. Since then, he had hidden his powers. Wizards in Bristile were feared. Those discovered were sent to the Death Pit, a lava-filled chasm where they mined diamonds and were rumored to find the Grind Gold which when found would grant the beholder unlimited powers.

One week, a huge man began visiting his stall. The first day he bought a painting. The second day, a rusted helmet. The third, nothing at all, just a long stare at Topper. On the fourth day, he pointed to a ruby the size of a dove’s egg.

“How much?” the man asked.

“A thousand cers,” Topper said, testing him.

Without hesitation, the man handed over a heavy pouch of gold.

Suspicion gnawed at Topper. He packed up early and followed the man into a narrow alley. There, his blood froze. The man was speaking to the king himself.

“I haven’t seen signs yet,” the man said.

“He must be,” the king replied. “Because of his father. The strongest wizard we ever saw. The boy must be one too. We need him to collect the Grind Gold so I can gain unlimited power.”

Topper’s chest tightened. His father had died in the Death Pit. Now the king hunted him.

That night he could not sleep. At dawn, he packed food, water, herbs, and his father’s wooden eagle. If the king wanted the Grind Gold, Topper had to reach it first.

At first, the road was gentle. Oaks shaded the path, and birds sang. But by midday, the trail thinned, and by evening it vanished. He turned around and saw only endless trees.

Topper marked trunks with his knife and followed a stream, but the deeper he went, the less the forest cared about paths. Vines hung low, insects clouded his face, and sweat rolled down his neck. Once, a green snake lifted its head from a branch and watched him with flat eyes before gliding away.

By nightfall, his arms were covered in scratches from thorns, and his shirt hung in tatters. He crawled under a fallen log for shelter. Darkness pressed in on every side, alive with rustles and calls. At one point, two yellow eyes glowed only feet away. A panther. Topper sat frozen, whispering, “You see me. I see you.” The beast blinked, and somewhere in the dark a rabbit squeked. The panther slipped away, leaving Topper awake until dawn.

The next few days blurred into one long trial.

Fog closed around him so thick he could barely see his hands. He walked blind, every step slow, until thunder rolled overhead. Rain poured down, turning the ground to mud. Lightning tore a tree in two with a crack that made his chest ache. He stumbled on, soaked and shivering despite the heat. That night, when he tried to light a fire, the sparks leapt higher than they should have, a burst of light from his own hands. He stared at them, half frightened, half amazed.

The storm had swollen the river. He reached it the next morning, a churning wall of brown water filled with floating logs. He tied his blanket into a rope and stepped in. The current yanked at his legs, dragging him sideways. A log smashed into his hip, and he slipped under. Desperate, he threw out his hands. Heat burst from his chest, and the water hissed around him. He clawed for a rock and pulled himself to the far bank, coughing, his whole body trembling.

Exhaustion slowed him. Once he leaned against a tree and the ground crumbled at his feet. He dropped to his knees just in time, staring at a cliff edge where jagged rocks waited far below. Sparks flew from his fingertips as he scrambled back, his own magic saving his grip.

Hunger pressed on him like a weight. He ate berries when he found them and once drank from a muddy pool. By nightfall his stomach twisted, and fever burned him. He curled up, whispering, “Believe you will live.” A warmth spread through his chest, easing the pain. When he woke, the fever was gone.

That night wolves circled him, their eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. He held his knife tight, shaking. Fear built in his chest until sparks flew from his palms. The wolves whimpered and retreated into the trees. He stared at his hands, stunned. His magic was no longer something he could hide.

Other nights brought no rest. Once, a wild boar crashed from the brush, tusks lowered. He threw his hands up without thinking, and a flash of light sent it squealing into the dark. Another time, seeking shelter, he stepped into a cave and startled a swarm of bats. They burst from the ceiling in a flurry of wings, claws scratching his cheek. Sparks flew with every flail of his arms until the night glowed, and the bats scattered.

Every danger pushed his powers to the surface. Fire to light the dark, sparks to drive away beasts, warmth to heal his sickness. The woods were teaching him what he could do.

Still, fear never left him. The forest seemed endless. The days blurred, his feet blistered, and his arms burned from scratches. Yet something inside pulled him forward, like a string tied to his bones.

One afternoon, he noticed black feathers scattered on the ground. A raven perched above him, watching with hard eyes. It croaked once, then flew a short distance and landed again. He followed. Each time he drew close, it lifted and went farther. It led him through a grove of mushrooms, across a slope of tilted trees, and at last to a ring of stones filled with cold ash. Shoe prints marked the dirt. Topper dropped to his knees. Someone else had been here. “Thank you,” he whispered. The raven gave one last croak and vanished into the sky.

That night he dreamed of stew turning to ash. He woke to the real smell of smoke drifting in the air. He followed it through blackened trees, the ground cracked and glowing faintly. From a ridge, he looked down into the Death Pit, where lava glowed red and chains clinked in the hands of weary wizards. The king sat on a dark throne, his sword across his knees.

The ground shifted under Topper’s feet. He fell with a cry into darkness.

He woke in bed, the smell of stew filling the room. A boy with round glasses sat nearby.

“You fell through a hole,” the boy said. “I’m Bill.”

Bill explained that he had come to the jungle seeking Grind Gold, but he got lost. With magic, he had built this cabin and survived a year alone.

Topper hesitated, then admitted, “I’m a wizard too.”

Bill grinned with relief. “Then you understand.”

They spoke for hours. Bill showed him a charcoal map of the jungle with notes on streams and cliffs. “The south path into the pit has fewer guards,” Bill explained. “But the ground rattles when you step on it.”

“I feel the Grind Gold pulling me,” Topper said. “Like a string in my chest.”

Bill asked him to show his power. Nervous, Topper picked up a stick. Sparks leapt, then flames licked the end. Bill clapped. “Stronger than me. Danger brings it out, doesn’t it?”

For days, they practiced together. Bill lifted stones, Topper tried healing scratches. Once, while testing, a giant spider dropped from the trees, its hairy legs spreading wide. Topper froze, but Bill blasted light into its eyes. Together, they cut through its web and drove it back. Afterward, they laughed shakily, realizing the woods had prepared them for this.

When they packed to leave, Bill slipped a smooth stone into his pocket. “For luck,” he said. Topper carried his father’s wooden eagle. Together, they stepped back into the heat.

The closer they came, the hotter the air grew. From a ridge, they saw the pit: lava glowing, wizards chained to Lance Rock, guards marching, and the king himself watching from his throne with a sword black as night.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Topper whispered. Bill nodded and crept higher up the slope.

Topper hurried to the nearest chained wizard. “Go,” she whispered. “They’ll catch you.”

He set his hands on the chain and pictured it breaking. Sparks shot, and the links snapped. The woman stared at her freed wrists.

Above, rocks tumbled. Bill had started the slide. Guards shouted and ran toward the noise. Topper moved from wizard to wizard, breaking chains with bursts of heat until dozens stood free.

“We must find the Grind Gold,” Topper told them. “It is here. I feel it.”

They searched the pit until the ground bulged. A golden rock erupted, glowing with inner fire.

“All at once,” Topper shouted.

Magic surged. Dozens of hands lifted, sparks and beams striking the stone. Cracks spread. With a thunderous snap, the Grind Gold shattered, turning dull and gray.

The king roared, leaping forward with his guards. His sword hummed with dark power. Fear swept the freed wizards, but Topper raised his hands. “Together!”

Light filled the pit, brighter than flame. Guards stumbled back, armor bending under the force. The king’s sword clashed against a wall of magic, cracked, and split in two. The wizards unleashed one final surge, blasting him into the dust. He did not rise. His guards dropped their weapons.

The Death Pit hissed and fell silent. The wizards stood free.

Some fled into the jungle. Others wept, clutching their wrists. Bill stood beside Topper, smiling. “We did it.”

At the cabin, they parted. Bill chose to stay, guarding the pit. “Tell them there is a boy in the woods who keeps watch,” he said.

The walk back felt lighter. The swamp, the cliffs, the storms, and the beasts no longer frightened him. He had faced them once and lived. At last, he saw the rooftops of Linion Square.

Merchants shouted. Coins clinked. Pastries baked. Everything looked the same, yet people’s eyes lingered on him as if they sensed something they could not name.

Topper smiled. Getting lost had taught him more than how to find his way home. It had taught him that true magic was believing, even in the darkest forest, that he could keep moving forward.