Not Meant for Him

Gray. The name literally means dullness. Bland. Colorless.

I’ve never understood why anyone would give a child a name like that. Maybe it was one of those situations where parents are forced to decide immediately after the baby is born, and the only thing echoing in their heads is a list of colors—Black, Orange, Yellow, Blue… Gray. Or maybe I was born with gray hair that later turned raven-black.

Yeah. Sure.

Too bad I can’t ask them what really happened. They’ve been dead for a long time. At least, that’s what the caretakers at the orphanage told me. They could’ve just said it plainly—Don’t bother waiting, boy. They’re gone. No one’s coming for you. You’ll rot here like the rest of us.

Honestly, I would’ve preferred that.

Instead, they told me a story. A dramatic one. My parents died in a horrific train accident, along with all my relatives. They loved me so much that, in the moment of impact, they shielded me with their bodies. That’s why I survived.

If that were true, I’d remember something.

Screams. Blood. The crash.

Something.

At the very least, I’d have a scar.

But I don’t.

…Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fifteen soon. And the orphanage will be done with me just as quickly. Kids like me—grown-out “children”—don’t belong here. Doesn’t matter how much the caretakers insist we’re all wonderful and special.

One more year… Just one more.

Damn.

I cracked one eye open when something jabbed me in the ribs.

There was only one person annoying enough to do that.

Tony.

His full name was Anatonijus, but no one ever called him that. Probably because it was too long. Or maybe he just hated it.

I glanced at the brown-haired idiot. As always, he was smiling—the kind of smile that made you want to shut a door in his face.

“Gray, don’t tell me you’re staying inside again,” he said, already laughing. “You’re going to rot in here like a complete bore.”

Same question. Every day.

“Correct,” I said, nodding. “And there’s nothing wrong with being boring.”

I stretched and closed my eyes again, even though I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. At least this way I didn’t have to look at his grin.

“Hey, we need a goalkeeper,” he pressed on. “Without you, we’re doomed.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

There it was.

Tony had a whole collection—boring, coward, girl—like he was waiting for one of them to finally get a reaction out of me. Unfortunately for him, my patience was stronger than his imagination.

Why he still talked to me, I had no idea.

“I thought at least today you’d come out,” he added, sounding more serious. “They’re delivering letters.”

That made me open my eyes.

“Letters?”

Something about that didn’t sit right.

“What?” he said.

“It’s Sunday.”

“…So?”

“No one delivers letters on Sundays.”

Tony rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might fall out.

“Then how did Billy get one?”

I frowned.

“Maybe one of your friends decided to play a joke on him.”

“We have better things to do than prank a twelve-year-old,” he snapped. Then, clearly losing patience, he added, “Just come outside and see for yourself.”

I sighed and glanced at the old TV sitting on the small table nearby, its screen coated in dust, a crocheted cloth draped neatly over it. The TV wasn’t working for ages.

Nothing terrible would happen if I went outside once.

…Right?

Although, thinking about it, something always happened. A bee sting. A pinecone to the head. A fight. A scraped knee. It was like fate itself kept telling me: Stay inside. Forever. Read your books.

“Fine,” I muttered. “Where is he?”

Bill Hetson.

An immigrant kid. His parents died in a shootout when he was nine—too dramatic a story for someone like him. He’d only been here a year. Quiet, polite, generous… and far too soft for his own good. He stuck close to people he trusted, people who could stand up for him—because he couldn’t.

I was one of those people.

I always called him Billy. It suited him better.

He sat under a tree, surrounded by a few boys, proudly holding up a letter. The envelope was still sealed. White, with a red wax stamp that stood out even from a distance.

Who even used wax seals anymore?

“Hey, Billy,” I said as I walked up. “Why haven’t you opened it yet?”

His face lit up the moment he saw me.

“I was waiting for you,” he said with a smile. “You read the best out of all of us.”

That wasn’t true. The others just couldn’t be bothered to learn properly.

“If you actually paid attention in reading lessons, you’d do just fine,” I said, taking the envelope anyway.

It was… strange.

Thick. Heavy. Yellowed parchment instead of regular paper. The address was written in vivid green ink:

Mr. B. Hetson

Eglynas Orphanage

4 Pinetree Street

No stamp.

A red wax seal held it shut. The emblem pressed into it showed four creatures—a mermaid, a long-beak bird, a wolf, and a winged serpent—coiled around a single letter A.

It looked like something out of an old history book. The kind kings used.

And the paper smelled faintly of cinnamon.

I broke the seal, ruining it, and pulled the letter out. It was handwritten in ink, the script so neat it looked printed.

I read it aloud.

ACADEMY OF ARCANE ARTS

Headmaster: A. Valen

(Archmage of the First Circle, Keeper of the Northern Order)

Dear Mr. Hetson,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Academy of Arcane Arts. Enclosed you will find a list of required books and materials.

The school year begins on September 1st. We await your reply no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely,

E. Marrow

Deputy Headmistress

Silence.

Then—

“A magic school?” Billy’s eyes lit up. “That’s amazing!”

The other boys looked at him with jealousy.

I stared at the letter.

Magic school.

Right.

This had Tony written all over it.

Cruel, too. Getting a kid like Billy excited over something fake…

“When do I go?” Billy asked eagerly. “When? Soon?”

I hesitated.

“…We should probably ask the caretaker first,” I said carefully. “There’s still time.”

His face fell a little.

“She’ll never let me go.”

“I’ll talk to her,” I said. “But… if she says no, be ready for that too. Okay?”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. He just nodded.

He never argued.

He just waited.

I slipped the letter back into its envelope as I walked.

And where did I go next?

Of course—Tony.

He was out in the yard, kicking a ball around with the others. Calling it a “football field” was generous. Two sticks shoved into the ground marked each goal, and somehow that was enough for them.

I still didn’t understand how they kept score.

“Tony!” I called, waving the envelope. “Get over here!”

At that exact moment, he kicked the ball—

—straight into one of the sticks.

It toppled over.

“No goal!” someone shouted.

Tony spun around, furious, and stormed toward me.

“YOU!” he snapped. “What the hell was that for?!”

His brown curls clung to his forehead, his face flushed red with sweat or anger. He looked like an offended ram. All he was missing were horns.

“That’s what you get,” I said flatly, holding up the letter. “You shouldn’t have sent Billy a fake one.”

“Bloody hell, I didn’t send him anything!”

“Then explain this.”

“I said I didn’t!” he shot back. “I’ve got better things to do!”

And just like that, he turned and ran back to his game.

Useless.

There was no getting anything out of him—not the truth, not even a decent argument.

Which left me with one option.

The head caretaker.

I went in through the back door. I didn’t want Billy seeing me and asking questions.

I won’t ask about magic school, nor if he can go there.

It’s obviously a fabrication.

The director’s office was on the fifth floor—a place I almost never had to visit. I slept on the second, ate on the first, and spent most of my time on the third, in the small library.

My favorite place.

By the time I reached the fourth floor, my legs were already protesting. By the fifth, they felt like they might snap off entirely.

Still, I made it.

At the end of the corridor stood a single door, marked with a silver plaque:

Director’s Office

I knocked.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice called.

I stepped inside.

The room was small. The walls were covered in photographs of children—past and present. Between them hung clocks. Five of them, all ticking slightly out of sync.

Behind a polished wooden desk sat the director. Seventy-four years old, white-haired, sharp-eyed, and very much unwilling to give up her position to anyone else.

“Gray,” she said kindly, peering at me over her large square glasses. “What is it?”

“I wanted to ask about this letter,” I said, holding out the envelope.

I was about to explain—about Billy, about the prank—

But then I saw her face.

She lit up.

Actually lit up.

“Gray!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “How wonderful! You’ve been accepted!”

I froze.

“…What?”

“This is incredible!” she went on, already standing, already moving. “I never thought one of you would be chosen—oh, this is marvelous!”

Before I could react, she pulled me into a tight embrace.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, ruffling my black hair when she let go.

“Wait—”

“No ‘wait.’” Her tone snapped into something firm. Unarguable. “That academy of Arcane Arts is very real. And you, my boy, have been accepted because you are a wizard.”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

I hadn’t even told her it was Billy’s letter.

Idiot.

I shifted the letter behind my back.

“Why do you look so miserable?” she asked. “Don’t you want to go?”

“It’s not— I’m not—”

“No excuses,” she cut in. “You are the pride of this orphanage, do you understand? Term begins next week. We don’t have time to waste.”

She was already moving again, talking more to herself now.

“I’ll give you crowns from my account… yes, yes… you’re a good boy, you won’t misuse it…”

Then she turned back to me.

“Pack your things. You’re leaving today.”

It felt like a dream.

A ridiculous, impossible one.

Mages didn’t exist.

Schools like that didn’t exist.

And yet…

She had known the name.

I returned to my room without seeing anyone. Especially not Billy.

I couldn’t face him.

Not when I was about to take his place.

I found a worn backpack and packed what little I owned—two pairs of jeans, three shirts, a sweater, socks, underwear, the letter, and a book on the World’s history.

That was it.

I stared at the bag for a long moment.

I had never been to a real school. None of us had. We were taught here—by caretakers, by older kids.

I taught the younger ones how to read.

Would they keep reading without me?

Would anyone even notice I was gone?

Why did I get this chance?

It wasn’t fair.

They all deserved it just as much.

Maybe more.

I exhaled slowly.

This wasn’t even my letter.

I should tell her.

I would tell her.

But then—

Would Billy be alright there?

He could barely stand up for himself here. What would happen in a place full of strangers?

…

Maybe it was better if I went instead.

He’d get his own letter later.

He had to.