THE MAGICIAN

THE MAGICIAN

CHAPTER FIVE

Rhode Island, Providence

Beneath the marble floors of the Providence National Library lay a secret world—hidden from mortal eyes by an ancient glamour.
The Magic Library was vast beyond comprehension, a spiraling labyrinth of corridors that seemed to twist endlessly into themselves. Staircases floated midair, drifting and reshaping like obedient serpents of stone. Books with paper wings flitted overhead, whispering in forgotten tongues as they fluttered between shelves that stretched far beyond sight.

The air was thick with parchment dust and candle smoke. Golden motes danced in the still air, illuminated by a strange, fiery orb suspended above—the Library’s own miniature sun. It burned bright, yet harmless, casting a warm, eternal dawn upon the halls.

Massive portraits of ancient Archmages and Grand Masters adorned the bronze-and-marble walls, their painted eyes watching all who passed. Clara once told him that the mantle of Wizard Supreme was handed down from century to century—one chosen magician to the next. Some of the faces on the walls were so old that even their names had been lost to time.

The furniture was ancient too: dark Victorian wood, dust-layered and carved with sigils of protection. The place smelled of power and memory. Here, among the tomes of forgotten magic, Damian Osborne learned his craft. He studied spellbooks that pulsed faintly with life—books that taught him to summon fire, weave invisible glamours, forge forcefields, and bend the very molecules of matter.

Clara Osborne—his sister, sharp and severe—was his teacher and guide. She told him of the Magic Order, their ancient war against the Dark Order, and the rise and fall of mages whose power could split mountains.

“I thought manipulating molecules was a form of alchemy,” Damian once asked during a late-night lesson.

“There’s a fine line between alchemy and magic,” Clara replied, eyes glinting under candlelight. “Before magic, there was alchemy. The mages of old crafted potions, changed matter, and healed the dying. Magic evolved from their art—but we owe everything to alchemy. Without it, there would be no magic at all.”

That night, she presented him with a wand.

It was slender, carved from dark ashwood, polished to a silken gleam. A soft golden metal capped the handle, etched with his initials.

“This is yours,” Clara said simply.

Damian grasped it gently. The wand felt alive in his hand—warm, like it recognized him. He gave it a slow, experimental swing, and a faint shimmer of light followed the motion.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Loise Osborne, his mother, entered quietly behind them. Her presence filled the room like the calm before a storm.

“I see your training is going well,” she said, her voice both proud and weary. “But listen—I have to leave for a while. There’s something I must do. When the time comes, and when you’re ready…” She placed her hand over Damian’s heart. “We’ll take on Trigon. Together.”

Her eyes glowed with defiance—and fear.

---

Days bled into weeks. Weeks became months. Damian’s training consumed him. His hands were burned, his mind stretched, but his power grew.

One evening, as rain drummed against the enchanted glass, Clara entered his small room unannounced. She looked different—dark lipstick, raven hair tied back, her usual edge sharpened.

“You know she’s going to abandon us again,” she said flatly.

Damian looked up from his open spellbook.

“How could you say that?”

“Because I’ve seen it. It’s in her nature.” Clara’s voice was soft, but it cut like a knife. “Don’t get too comfortable, kiddo. She’ll break your heart.”

She turned and vanished down the hallway, leaving only the faint scent of lilac and dust behind.

---

It was deep into the night when Clara stormed into his room again.

“Damian! Wake up—we have to go. Mother’s waiting.”

He blinked, dazed.

“Wait… where are we going?”

“No time to explain. Just move.”

He hurriedly dressed and followed her through the winding staircases of the Library until they reached the grand atrium. There, at its center, hovered a blazing portal—a swirling vortex of crimson fire.

They stepped through.

The heat and light vanished instantly. They emerged into the cold, desolate tunnels of the New York City subway. The hour was late. The streets above were silent, abandoned. Somewhere, a gust of wind dragged a stray newspaper across the floor like a ghost.

“Why are we here?” Damian asked.

“We’re looking for a warlock gargoyle,” said Loise, her eyes scanning the shadows. “He’s lived here for centuries. He knows things—about Trigon.”

“A gargoyle?” Damian said incredulously.

“Yes, Damian,” Clara hissed. “A gargoyle.”

They descended deeper, following the scent of sulfur and wet stone. The tunnels grew narrower, the air heavy and sour. Finally, they reached a massive metal gate, engraved with strange, twisting symbols.

Loise lifted her wand and whispered, “Inspira visibla.”

The gate shimmered and expanded, revealing words carved in a forbidden script—The Gate to the Pit. Damian recognized it from the ancient texts of the Magic Order.

Loise knocked twice.

A shadow stirred behind the bars. Then came a hiss of metal and fire. The creature that appeared was both grotesque and magnificent—a gargoyle, with leathery wings and stone-like skin cracked by veins of molten light. Its eyes burned amber, its fanged mouth twisting into a grin.

“Loise Osborne,” it said, voice deep as thunder. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Loise stepped forward, retrieving a golden coin from her pocket—the same token used by the Order’s elite. She slid it across the desk before him.

“Information,” she said. “Where is Trigon?”

The gargoyle—Darren—paused, his clawed fingers trembling slightly.

“Ah… Trigon.” His voice dropped into a rumbling whisper. “He is everywhere, Loise. He has eyes and ears in every shadow. The Dark Order freed him after a millennium of confinement. He draws power from them now—dark, ancient power. Some of your own allies serve him.”

“Impossible,” Loise snapped. “I would have known.”

Darren chuckled—a horrible, fire-crackling sound.

“You’ve been gone a long time, my dear. The world has changed. Trigon prepares for the Second Coming of the Underworld. His followers—your former brethren—are already making ready.”

“You’re lying,” Clara muttered.

“Am I?” Darren leaned closer. Smoke curled from his nostrils. “The Magic Order is compromised. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

Loise’s eyes hardened. “We’ll see about that.”

“Good luck,” Darren said with a sinister grin, snapping his ledger shut. “You’ll need it.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

Damian turned to Clara, his pulse racing. She looked back, pale and wordless.

Trigon was free.
The Magic Order had been infiltrated.
And the war they had feared for centuries—had already begun.