There was nothing extraordinary about the morning on which this story began.

It was, in fact, almost boring down in the small town of Fizzlebarry. A dull white mist hung over the streets, the minuscule droplets seeming to pull all color and joy from the place. Children who would normally have been out at play, racing on their bicycles or daring each other to climb Fizzle Tower and ring the bell, were instead curled up inside under blankets, hoping the sun would melt away the miserable fog.

Fizzlebarry was one of those postcard towns, the kind that looks good from any angle. Winding little stone roads crisscrossed all over, looking something like spaghetti from the air. Butting up against the streets were little stone-and-wood houses, all neat and tidy and almost all the same. Cheerful over-bright flowerboxes beamed beneath the front windows, trimmed to blinding perfection. In the center of Fizzlebarry Square stood a large tree bursting with pink blossoms; some of these blossoms were strewn over the stone paving, but even this looked perfect and planned, almost unnatural.

But the mist swallowed this beauty and color, even the vibrant flowerbeds. At heart, the townspeople knew why this one morning was shrouded in this all-consuming fog; they knew but did not want to admit it. Until the sun failed to burn it off, they would cling to the hope that they were mistaken. And when the fog remained, the citizens of Fizzlebarry would rouse themselves with a sigh and make the trip to Middle Valley.

This trip happened every year on July 2nd, the exact middle of the year. Once upon a time it was looked forward to, but after one nightmare-inducing event, it was more like a mandatory evil.

The atmosphere in the mountains, however, couldn’t be more different.

Upon Mount North, Madam Chickadee’s School for Gifted Children was built. Impossible though it seemed, the school was even grander than the picturesque town of Fizzlebarry. It was an ivory castle with three towers, their roofs tiled with pale umber clay. Two of these towers stabbed skyward like arrows, one even clearing the mountain’s crest. The third was dwarfed in comparison, standing at about sixty feet. Lush vines adorned with pink flowers climbed these towers, their leafy fingers digging into the cracks between the stones. Beneath the castle lay an immaculate garden and courtyard, every bit as neat as Fizzlebarry’s flowerbeds but softer on the eyes. The sound of birdsong never ceased here.

The school built on the slopes of Mount South was quite the opposite of Madam Chickadee’s. The structures were similar, but that was where their likeness ended.

This school was called Miss Malkin’s School for Troubled Children. As the rival of Madam Chickadee’s school, its towers were dark grey-brown, topped with black tiles. Half of the castle was buried in forest, the rest almost covered in sprawling vines. One could pretend it was nothing more than a ruin.

Unless, of course, you were a student there.

Down in the gardens on this dismal morning sat one of Miss Malkin’s students, watching a rose curl and uncurl in time with her own fist.

This girl’s name was Angelina Thornton, though everyone knew her by her middle name, Rose. Although her name was pleasant, she was anything but that. She was beautiful, in the way that a venomous snake is—gorgeous but deadly. She reminded everyone she met, without fail, of the saying “every rose has its thorn”.

Today she sat in the garden not just for solitude but in an attempt to avoid being picked as one of her school’s contestants. She was sure the selection was rigged—the strongest students got chosen every year. She was just hoping some other students happened to be stronger than her this year. She wanted nothing more than to see the school defeated this time around.

Meanwhile, at this same moment in the white castle, Peter Archibald Newman threw open his window and pulled the fresh air deep into his lungs, calmed by the scent of the blooming vines.

He had been dreading this day all week; some part of him knew the fear was irrational, but the worry tugged at him all the same. Today the contestants for Madam Chickadee’s School for Gifted Children would be selected at random, and Peter was terrified he’d be one of them.

He knew the chances were slim to none, with over two thousand students in his school, but his name was still on the list. If he weren’t so ordinary, he wouldn’t have been so scared. But he was ordinary, and ordinary wasn’t going to win the contest. Ordinary wasn’t going to uphold his school’s honor.

Ordinary wouldn’t make his brother proud.

He took one more breath of the petal-scented air and turned back to his room, walking over to the mirror. He couldn’t spot anything wrong with his uniform, except maybe the fact that he didn’t look very grown-up—more like a little boy wearing his dad’s work boots, trying to walk in them. Peter thought his face was too round, his body too short. He supposed it could be worse, but he undeniably wasn’t going to be getting any compliments.

His gaze was pulled to the open window when the sound of the Fizzle Tower bell reverberated in the distance, signaling that it was time to join the rest of the students for the choosing of Madam Chickadee’s contestants for the year.

Casting one more glance at the mirror, Peter exited his room and went down to the main hall, heart racing with apprehension.

The main hall had been transformed today, as it had been the previous two years. The tables and chairs had disappeared, leaving an ample space now occupied by the student body. The west-facing end of the hall held a raised platform, upon which stood the school’s staff, including Madam Chickadee herself. Before her was a large glass ball filled with paper slips. With a sickening twist of his gut, Peter thought, My name is on one of those.

“Welcome, my prodigies!” Madam Chickadee said when all the students had gathered. “As I’m sure you all know by now, I will select our school’s contestants for the Middle Valley Challenge in a few moments. For our new students, the Middle Valley Challenge is a competition we hold with our rivaling school, Miss Malkin’s School for Troubled Children. It’s different each year, designed by the architects of Fizzlebarry. Each year five students are chosen to participate at random—this year, our school chooses three and Miss Malkin’s chooses two. Before I draw the slips, I’d like to say the Pledge of Honor. . .everyone with me, now. . .”

Together, the students and teachers chanted the Pledge of Honor: “I swear to uphold my school’s honor,” so on and so forth. . .Peter was too distracted to really pay attention.

Madam Chickadee stepped forward. “Okay, it’s time!”

She reached in, digging around for three bits of paper. When she’d picked all of them out, she opened one and read, “Jimmie Richard Montesa. Please join me here on the stage. . .”

A tall, gangly boy mounted the stage. Peter thought he looked a lot like a living scarecrow.

“Aibleen X Earnhardt,” Madam Chickadee said.

Peter recognized the student who climbed the stage this time. She had pale skin and dark hair. In his first week of school, she’d helped him a lot. Over the last year, though, they hadn’t spoken much.

Peter’s nerves were higher now than ever as Madam Chickadee opened the last slip.

“And last but not least, we have. . .”

Please, please, please don’t be me, Peter thought, heart pounding once more.

What happened next seemed so impossible and so comical, it was more like something right out of Peter’s favorite books—except he was anything but delighted by it.

“Peter Archibald Newman,” Madam Chickadee called. “Join us on the stage.”

For a horrible second, Peter could barely move his feet. But they began working, carrying him as if by their own volition up to the platform until he stood by Jimmie and Aibleen. He stared at the people filling up the hall, feeling dazed. . .

Among the crowd, he caught his brother Samuel’s eye. Sam grinned and gave him two thumbs-up. Peter tried to smile back, hoping it wouldn’t betray how he felt.

“Well, these are our three champions,” Madam Chickadee said. “Today they will compete to defend our school’s honor and show their own strengths, even against high odds and unexpected circumstances. I expect you all to show them your full support during the contest. Hail!”

This last word was echoed back by the rest of the staff and students.

Peter wanted nothing more than to crawl in a hole and die. He couldn't seem to reign in his distraught feelings over actually being picked to uphold his school's honor in a challenge that was as unfit for him as tits on a fish. For whatever reason his rather ordinary self kept being lumped in with people who held real magic. There were students who could wield lightning or shape metal into any form they wished. All Peter could do was communicate with the furry creatures outside his bedroom window. And who in their right mind thought talking to animals was any sort of real magic.

When a knock came at his door, Peter sighed. "Go away."

"Come on, Petey," Sam said. "I've come to cheer you up."

"I don't want to be cheered up. I want to crawl in a hole and die."

"No you don't," Sam said with a chuckle.

Peter opened the door to his older brother. He stepped back, knowing his brother wouldn't leave until he'd let him bash him over the head with unnecessary cheer. "You don't understand. What sort of honor can I show our school when all I can do is talk to animals.

"But how cool is that?" Sam protested lightly. "You can literally communicate with any animal. You can have them fetch things, or let you ride on their back without being tossed off. Who else can do that?"

"And what good does that do? I can't do anything of consequence. Nothing in my ability actually helps. It's just showy and pretentious."

"If you were a jerk, it'd be pretentious," Sam argued. "But you are the kindest person in our entire school."

"Exactly," Peter said. "Somehow that should prove my point."

"So," Sam said, as if this thought should be obvious to his little brother. "Go out and show everyone the power you have to get animals to do your bidding."

Peter didn't exactly feel better when Sam finally left, but a plan was forming in his mind. If he truly could get animals to do as he wished, what would show the might of his power?

Peter didn’t sleep much that night.

Not because he was plotting something grand or heroic. Mostly because every time he closed his eyes, he saw the arena. The stands packed with students. The judges watching with thin, unimpressed smiles. Lightning cracking from someone’s fingertips. Steel twisting like ribbon in someone else’s hands.

And then there’d be him.

“Hey,” came a soft chatter from outside his window.

Peter rolled over and stared at the glass. A gray squirrel clung to the screen, tail flicking.

“You’re loud tonight,” she said.

“Sorry,” Peter muttered. “Existential crisis.”

The squirrel blinked. “Is that like winter?”

“Worse.”

He pushed himself up and opened the window. Cold air poured in. Within seconds, the branches outside rustled. Wings fluttered. Tiny claws scraped bark.

Two squirrels, a trio of sparrows, a blue jay who acted like he owned the place, and—after a heavy thump—a raccoon hauling himself onto the sill with dramatic effort.

“You look ill,” the raccoon observed.

“I’m not ill.”

“You smell stressed.”

“That’s not better.”

The blue jay cocked his head. “Is this about the loud gathering of humans you mentioned?”

“The challenge,” Peter sighed. “Yeah.”

“You’re worried you’ll fail,” the sparrow chirped.

Peter hesitated. “I’m worried I don’t belong.”

The animals were quiet at that.

“You belong here,” the squirrel said simply.

“That’s different.”

“Why?” asked the raccoon.

“Because you don’t expect me to shoot lightning out of my hands.”

The raccoon considered this. “Lightning seems impractical.”

“It’s not about practical,” Peter snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry. It’s just… everyone else’s magic does something big. Something obvious.”

The blue jay gave a sharp laugh. “You think commanding a sky full of wings isn’t obvious?”

Peter frowned.

The raccoon leaned closer. “How many of us would come if you called?”

Peter looked from face to face. “I don’t know.”

The squirrel’s whiskers twitched. “All of us.”

Something shifted in his chest.

—

Students filled the stone amphitheater carved into the hillside. Banners snapped in the wind. The judges sat elevated behind a long table etched with runes.

Peter stood at the edge of the arena floor, hands damp, heart pounding.

He watched as one student bent iron bars into elaborate sculptures in seconds. The crowd roared.

Another summoned a twisting arc of lightning that danced between floating metal spheres. Louder cheers.

Peter swallowed.

When his name was called, the applause was polite. Curious. Expectant.

He stepped into the center.

Empty-handed.

A few students whispered.

Peter closed his eyes.

For a terrifying second, doubt tried to swallow him whole.

What if they didn’t come?

Then he inhaled.

And he called.

Not with words.

With something deeper.

A pulse that moved through soil. Through roots. Through hollow logs and rooftop gutters and every open stretch of sky.

The wind shifted.

At first, it was subtle. A flutter overhead.

Then another.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as birds began to circle—first dozens, then hundreds. Sparrows, crows, jays, hawks spiraling in widening rings above the arena.

From the treeline came motion. Squirrels raced along branches in coordinated lines. Deer stepped cautiously from the forest’s edge. Even the earth itself seemed to tremble as burrowing creatures surfaced in careful patterns across the field.

Peter opened his eyes.

The arena was no longer empty.

It was alive.

He lifted a hand.

The birds split into two massive streams, weaving through each other in intricate, shifting designs against the sky—like living calligraphy.

He turned slightly.

The squirrels formed lines along the stone benches, tails raised in synchronized waves.

At a small gesture, the deer stepped forward, kneeling in unison before the judges’ table.

The crowd had gone completely silent.

Peter’s voice carried, steady now.

“You see power as control over elements,” he said. “But I don’t control them.”

He lowered his hand, and every creature stilled.

“They choose to answer.”

He looked up at the hawk circling highest above.

“We are taught that magic is about dominance. Force. Flash.” He met the judges’ eyes. “But what if it’s about trust?”

The hawk dove.

The crowd collectively inhaled as it shot downward at impossible speed—only to level out inches above Peter’s head and land gently on his outstretched arm.

Every animal in the arena bowed—not in submission, but in acknowledgment.

Peter felt it then. Worthy.

The applause started slowly.

Sam was standing in the front row, grinning like an idiot, clapping harder than anyone.

Peter didn’t feel like crawling into a hole anymore.

He felt rooted.

And for the first time, he understood.

Lightning could split the sky.

But he could move the world.

The spectators clapped and smiled, their positivity infectious. Usually, Peter would have shrunk away at being the center of attention. But this time, it wasn't about him. It was about his many, many animal friends that he had called to this place. He couldn't have done it without them. They were the ones who the applause was really for, and he was just their guide.

The judges deliberated amongst themselves, and then the one in the center gestured with his hand. A golden number 93 appeared in the air. Not the highest score possible, but higher than Jimmie's metal or Aibleen's lightning. He could scarcely believe it

The hawk on his arm glanced up at him. "Thank you," he said to her before she flew back up, circling high in the sky.

With another wave of his arm, the animals dispersed, returning to their homes in the wild. Peter left the arena with a big smile on his face.

He couldn't wait to debrief with Aibleen and Jimmie before the challenge continued later in the afternoon. He especially couldn't wait to see Sam and tell him he'd done it. But as he walked through the tunnels, someone else bumped into him first.

The girl had beautiful, curly blond hair and green eyes that matched her green dress, but her face formed a deep frown. She said nothing, just glared at him.

He realized he recognized her from earlier, when he had been watching the amphitheater from the sideline before his turn. "You're one of Miss Malkin's students! The plant summoner. Your control over those vines was incredible! And the way they crumbled to dust at the end of your display..."

"Not a plant summoner," she corrected him, voice surprisingly monotone. "A life mage. I can make things grow... or decay."

Life was one of the rarest gifts that any magic-wielder could get. Basically the furthest thing at all from Peter's common gift. Those who had that power usually ended up going on world-changing adventures, becoming heroes or artists or town mayors. But there was another name for life mages, and it was one that the people of Fizzlebarry knew all too well.

Death wielders.

"I'm Peter," he said, extending his hand. "The animal summoner."

She ignored it. "I know. All those squirrels and birds you did a little dance with. Public sanitation is going to have a field day tomorrow cleaning their droppings from the arena floor." Her frown turned into a smile at her own rude joke. "You can call me Rose. Better watch your back, birdboy. This challenge is far from over."