The Grounds Keeper

Chapter 3 A Wizard Is Born

Chapter 3: A Wizard Is Born

The smell of mothballs hit him first. The room beyond was dim, its entrance clogged with a chaotic wall of fabric. Eathon pushed through, wading hip-deep in a river of clothes. It got denser the farther he walked — shirts, coats, pants even dangled from the ceiling like vines in a jungle made of laundry.

Eventually, he broke through into a clearing. At the center stood a structure — an igloo made entirely of cloth. From inside came the sound of an unhinged rant:

"TEETH! I mean, what's the price of art made with toes? Flint and scratching, I said. Tumble the shirlyman, I said, I said, I said—FEET!"

Eathon hesitated. Then called out, cautiously, "Um, hello? Master Cupid? My name's Eathon, I'm here for—OH MY GOD!"

A face dropped from the ceiling, hanging upside down, inches from his own. Eathon reacted on pure instinct, swinging hard and landing a solid punch square between the eyes.

The figure — a small boyish-looking man — flipped backward off a clothing hanger and landed in a tangled pile of fabric.

He groaned, rubbing his forehead. When he spoke again, his voice had changed completely: clear, clipped, the polished accent of an old-world aristocrat.

"Oh dear, I do apologize. You've caught me in the midst of one of my episodes. I suffer from a rather... persistent personality disorder. It began around a hundred years ago, give or take."

He dusted himself off and straightened a white robe, fluttering small wings at his back.

"Used to be the angel of love, you know. Cupid. But things got... complicated. I once made a man fall hopelessly in love with his own shadow. Amusing at first—until he shattered a certain delicate organ attempting to make love to the floor. Management didn't take it well. Hence my reassignment to supplier and clothier for the Academy."

He floated in front of Eathon and extended a hand.

"Cupid, my boy. And you are?"

Eathon shook his hand, still wide-eyed. "You're Cupid? The Cupid? You look... different from the paintings."

The small man scowled. "Art. By which artist, exactly? And why would I be naked? Who in their right mind trusts a baby with love? They soil themselves and scream for milk. That's not romance — that's just biology."

Trying to steer things back on track, Eathon gave a polite smile. "Eathon Lorenzo. It's a pleasure, Mr. Cupid."

Cupid brightened. "Ah! The new groundskeeper. Poor lad. They're going to have a hell of a time with you. Hold on a moment."

He disappeared into the denim-and-yarn igloo. A sound like something massive being dragged echoed from inside. Then, with great effort, Cupid emerged tugging behind him an absurdly long filing cabinet, labeled alphabetically.

It was far too big to fit inside that structure, and yet... it had.

He opened a drawer marked T, waved Eathon over, and gestured toward the opening. Inside was a swirling pool of liquid silver. Without hesitation, Cupid dove in.

Moments later, a hand popped back out, waving Eathon to follow.

He took a breath and jumped in.

It wasn't water — more like falling through the atmosphere. He tumbled through a rush of wind, only to slow just before impact, landing gently on soft grass.

He looked around in awe.

A vast plain stretched out under the silver glow of the moon — though it had been morning only seconds ago. The air was still. Crisp. Peaceful.

Cupid sat at the edge of a nearby canyon, legs dangling, gazing at the horizon.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Pocket dimensions are difficult to master, but once you create one... it's like giving your soul a shape."

He stood and raised both hands. Something shimmered in the distance — the moon.

It began to fly toward them, shrinking as it came, until it landed gently in Cupid's hands, radiant and glowing.

He twisted it once, and it unfurled into a coat of breathtaking color. The fabric shimmered like oil on water, constantly shifting in hue. Eathon couldn't even describe the colors — they were hazy, elusive, like dreams caught in motion.

"This," Cupid said, "is the Technicolor Dreamcoat. Try it on, and let's see what gifts you carry."

Eathon took it carefully. The material was impossibly light — almost like holding air. He slid it over his shoulders. The robe flared with blinding brilliance, its colors spinning, dancing. Then it slowed, settled — and locked onto a deep, vibrant green.

Cupid clapped his hands, beaming.

"A Green Class Wizard is born. No matter how many times I see it, it never gets old. Congratulations, lad."

The robe lifted off his body and shot upward, twisting itself back into the moon and taking its place in the sky. Cupid snapped his fingers, and the ground opened beneath them.

They fell.

Back into the shop, landing in a soft pile of clothes. Eathon scrambled out, coughing, and found Cupid holding up a full-length mirror.

He stared. For the first time in his life, he looked... refined.

A dark green button-up shirt fit his broad frame perfectly, highlighted by a sharp-cut vest with gold-rimmed ivory buttons. Tailored pants fell just above fine leather boots capped with golden heels. The trench coat was the real statement — bronze-plated shoulders, a detailed crest at the chest, and a high collar that made him look like a man not to be messed with.

Back home, no tailor ever made clothes that fit his size. Here, he looked like a war hero who also happened to run a five-star fashion label.

He didn't want to admit it, but he felt something close to contentment.

"You look sharp, lad," Cupid said. "Anyone who says the suit doesn't make the man just hasn't worn the right suit."

Cupid set the mirror down and walked over to a desk. He pulled on thick welder's gloves and used blacksmith's tongs to retrieve a small leather-bound book from the drawer.

"Last thing. Take this. And no matter what—don't let go."

The second the book touched Eathon's hand, it bit him.

He clenched his jaw as the pain seared through his palm, then faded. When he looked, only a faint bite mark remained — already disappearing.

The book glowed softly. His name was etched inside the front cover. Below it, a topographic map shifted and blinked, constantly updating.

"That's your student ID," Cupid said. "Only one per person. It's blood-bound now — connected to you on a biological level. Think GPS, but it works across dimensions."

He tapped the cover. "It'll show your current location, your class schedule, and even serve as your textbooks once classes begin. It's all in there. Use it wisely."

Cupid clapped his hands once. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have mountains of work and a tragically short attention span. Off you go!"

Eathon stepped outside, blinking into the sun.

Wait—what?

It looked exactly as it had when he entered. No time had passed.

His ID buzzed.

A small bell rang and the screen lit up: Orientation in 15 minutes.

A glowing path illuminated on the map, and to his amazement, a dotted line appeared on the ground at his feet, guiding him forward.

He grinned. This little book replaced his entire backpack — textbooks, maps, schedules — all of it.

"I've never been this comfortable in my life," he muttered, walking faster, following the line.

Then—thud.

He collided with someone, sending them sprawling to the ground.