The weight of realisation settled on him as the initial euphoria faded. His heart, which had been racing with excitement, now drummed a more sombre rhythm against his ribs.
Am I a wizard?
It was definitely possible. The strange coincidence with the apples could be explained as accidental magic. A smile crept on his lips. The boy was ecstatic.
But soon, his joy turned sour.
His knowledge of this world was fragmentary at best, gleaned from movies watched in another lifetime, in another body. He didn't remember everything, and even if he did, so what? He was nothing but a child right now. By magical standards, an impossibly weak existence.
However, there was worse to consider.
If my guess is correct, if this truly is the 1970s, then somewhere in Britain, a dark lord is rising to power.
Voldemort. An antagonist he'd only ever seen in fiction. The thought that the Dark Lord was real and walked the same earth, breathed the same air, made his skin crawl.
At least I am not in Britain.
He consoled himself. But a part of him knew that it was only a temporary respite. Europe wasn't far from the British Isles.
I should be safe from that particular nightmare. For now.
The magical marketplace pulsed around him with otherworldly energy. Floating lanterns cast shifting patterns of amber and crimson across cobblestone streets that seemed to rearrange themselves when no one was looking.
Shop signs writhed with animated letters, their words flowing like liquid mercury across wooden boards. A woman in midnight-blue robes gestured with her wand, and a cascade of silver butterflies erupted from its tip, spiralling upward to dissolve among the stars.
Children chased wisps of colored light that danced just beyond their grasping fingers. Their laughter rang like crystal chimes, pure and joyous in a way that made his chest ache with longing.
An elderly man in emerald velvet robes conjured roses from thin air, each bloom a different impossible hue, before presenting them to his delighted granddaughter.
The very air thrummed with latent power. He could feel it against his skin like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on his arms and sending shivers down his spine.
It was intoxicating, addictive, and magical.
But the crowd's attention was becoming problematic.
Curious glances followed his small form, and he caught whispered conversations in languages that sounded familiar yet foreign. A child alone at this hour was suspicious anywhere; in a magical community, it might be downright dangerous.
He needed to find shelter and safety.
The boy ran through a bustling main thoroughfare, which gave way to quieter side streets as he navigated deeper into the magical district. His instincts drove him to find the darkness, to find comfort.
The architecture grew more intimate, with narrow alleys lined with shops that specialised in the peculiar and arcane. A sign in flowing script advertised "Moonbeam Elixirs for the Discerning Witch." Another proclaimed, "Enchanted Quills—Write Your Destiny."
The crowd thinned as he ventured further from the central marketplace.
Street lamps flickered with foxfire rather than flame, casting dancing shadows that seemed almost alive. He found himself walking down the spiralling streets.
But something nagged at him as he walked. The darkness whispered into his mind. Someone was following him. Always keeping at the edges of his vision, indetectable, but present.
He turned left, then right, following his instincts toward what he hoped would be a safer area.
The shops here had indeed closed for the night, their windows dark and unwelcoming.
He took a left turn this time, just to avoid walking in circles
The lights dimmed noticeably, and unease crept up his spine. He walked faster, scuttling through the streets. The presence was closing in at a brisk pace.
Every instinct screamed danger. He quickened his pace, staying close to the walls, hyperaware of every sound and movement. The feeling of being watched intensified with each step.
When he took the next turn, his blood turned to ice.
A man without a shadow stood inches away from him.
He wore a black suit and had pale skin. He looked at the boy with red eyes that blazed with predatory hunger, and when he smiled, rows of jagged teeth glinted like broken glass.
Vampire.
His heart dropped, the shadows writhed under his feet, lending him speed as he sprinted away, but the boy hadn't realised that the moment he'd seen the man's eyes, he was dazed.
No matter where he ran, every turn led back to the same alley, the same smiling predator who followed with leisurely confidence. The beast was savouring this, the hunt, the fear, the inevitable conclusion.
Slowly, the roads around him began fading, blocked by a bloody red mist; all roads had gone, leaving only him and the man in an impossibly narrow alley.
His back hit the rugged stone wall, and there was nowhere left to run.
The vampire sauntered, its pale lips pulled back to reveal fangs that gleamed like ivory daggers. The creature's eyes burned with fervour.
"Such a tender morsel," it purred, "wandering so far from safety. Do you taste of magic, little one?"
Desperation clawed at his throat, but beneath the terror, something else stirred.
Courage.
He'd died once already and spent aeons in the abyss, just to finally get a second chance.
Fate was a wretched mistress, and it seemed that the second chance he had gotten had landed him in the jaws of death again. But this time, he would not go quietly into whatever darkness awaited.
"Come then, you son of a bitch," he snarled, his young voice carrying a bitterness reserved for only old souls.
The vampire laughed and lunged with inhuman speed.
But the creature's hunger had made it sloppy, its reason drowned in bloodlust. When those clawed hands swept toward his head, the boy's enhanced reflexes saved him. He dropped low, slipping beneath the attack as the vampire's razor-sharp nails shredded stone instead of flesh.
The vampire was strong, fast, and utterly merciless. But it was also starving, desperate, operating on pure instinct rather than strategy. It fought like a rabid animal.
Claws raked across his chest, tearing cloth and skin. Pain rippled through him.
But he wasn't done yet.
The darkness of the alley had given him strength.
Finding the power returning to his arms, he drove his fingers toward the creature's eyes, digging deep into those burning red orbs.
"If I die, I'm taking you with me," he growled through gritted teeth.
The vampire shrieked. Black and viscous blood poured from its ruined sockets as it thrashed in agony. He'd blinded the beast, but the injuries he'd suffered were still serious.
However, the wound had broken the vampire out of its trance. It was no longer hunger the beast felt, but rage.
The vampire loomed over him, gripped his throat and lifted him off his feet. The boy choked, suffocating as his vision blurred.
The beast had won.
Blood streamed down the vampire's face like dark tears, and it lowered its head toward his throat, fangs seeking the pulse that hammered beneath his skin.
A faint smile touched the boy's lips.
At least I took its eyes.
The boy had resigned himself to fate. But as all was lost.
It seemed fate itself had not yet resigned on him.
Footsteps echoed through the alley, followed by a whispered incantation that carried the weight of absolute authority:
"Reducto."
Light erupted through the darkness. It was not the gentle glow of street lamps or the silver radiance of moon and stars, but the brilliant, terrible illumination of raw magical force. The spell struck the vampire like a battering ram, tearing it away from its prey in an explosion of light and sound.
When the brilliance faded, nothing remained of his tormentor but scattered ash that danced in the air.
The boy fell on his back, staring up at constellations that wheeled overhead like in the night sky. Blood seeped from his wounds, and exhaustion dragged at his consciousness.
"Beautiful," he whispered to the star-drunk sky. "So beautiful."
A voice called out to him, concerned, urgent, but already fading as darkness closed in around the edges of his vision.
He caught fragments: "Are you—" and "Can you hear—" but the words dissolved like smoke.
His saviour would have to remain a mystery. For now, the abyss was calling him home once more, and he was too tired to resist its familiar embrace.