To my dearest Grandfather,
I hope everything is well on your end. After more than ten rather miserable days trudging through the snow, I’ve finally found a somewhat passable set of table and chairs to write you this letter.
Mr. Anderson, if you're the one reading this aloud, please don't be angry. There really aren’t any pens or paper here that can produce those fancy letters you taught me. Honestly, even managing to find any pen and paper at all is thanks to the snowstorm—several traveling merchants trying to take a shortcut ended up stranded in this nameless little village. It took them quite a while to dig out this pen, which looks rather flimsy.
As for the paper, I had some with me, but unfortunately it got soaked. A few other sheets turned to ash when I tried to dry them by the fire. Fortunately, I don’t have much to write anyway.
Now, on to business.
I wasn’t able to meet the so-called “genuine and skilled” spellcaster Grandfather, the one you asked me to invite as some sort of “Initiator” (if I remember the term correctly).
He has a nickname now—something like “Firehand of Wendenport.” It only started spreading about half a month before I got there.
Apparently, he burned his own left hand quite badly while demonstrating some “spellcasting techniques” at the local academy. The scholar I spoke to described the injuries in such detail that I’d rather not repeat them. Not that it’s important, and it certainly doesn’t belong in this letter.
What is important is that, when a few scholars who hadn’t fainted took him to the doctor, some little props fell out of his scorched sleeve. Word is, they were linked to his so-called “spells.”
If nothing unexpected had happened, just like all those other not-so-clever frauds, the confession from his not-so-tight-lipped disciple would’ve been enough to get them both locked up in Wendenport’s famous saltwater prison.
But from the looks of things now, he probably won’t get the chance to explore whether those ghost stories about the prison are true or not.
According to the doctor, Firehand didn’t survive the amputation surgery. As for how things escalated to that point... well, let’s just say it’s a shame.
Honestly, I know you’re going to nag me again with that whole “it never hurts to try” spiel. Ever since I was little, you’ve loved telling me about the strange things you saw on the battlefield—people with flames or light in their hands. Mr. Anderson enjoyed your stories too, and helped you study those books.
But if you ask me, you definitely didn’t check their sleeves carefully enough before cutting them down. Even if real spellcasters did exist, they would’ve been scooped up by powerful figures long ago. Why would any of them parade around in a backwater place like Wendenport, putting on spellcasting performances for scholars?
Paper’s running low. I wanted to copy the exercises Mr. Anderson assigned me, but there’s not enough left.
I’ll be staying in this village for a few more days. Cousin Ryan is setting off ahead of me. By the time he delivers this letter to you, I’ll probably be just a few days behind.
Signed,
Kraft
(End of Chapter)