Wands are magic. They may be powerful or not, steeped in spells and potions or not. But they are never ordinary. Even when they are made of plastic and sold in toy stores.
But this is not about one of the toy store variety.
This wand was special. Born of ancient magic.
Carved from the taproot of an elm, it was forged in the dead of the night by a first class mage. There was only one intention behind its creation: that it be a weapon.
It served that purpose well. Too well it would seem. For, after the death of the mage, many sought to own it. When he almost lost his life protecting it, Ahkroyn, the one to whom it fell, employed a spell to cast it far from the kingdom. Where? No one knew. Not even he.
People sought it. Without success. Over time, the quest died off.
That was seventeen hundred years ago.
Then a ten year old boy found, what he thought a fancy, carved, stick in the attic.
It still looked as it did the day it became a conduit of forces of the nether realms. It still crackled with power.
Darren!
He was lost in the world of the wand. Mesmerized by the voice bombarding his mind. He did not hear his stepfather calling. He did not hear him walk up the creaking stairs.
Thwack!
The backhanded smack brought him to.
Without any conscious thought, Darren lifted the wand, waved it, pointed and spoke a word in a language long-forgotten.
There was a flash of light. Then everything dissolved.
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