Everyone has a little magic inside them.
The Festival began, people danced in the streets to lively music, bright colors flashed, clothing, flags, lights floated above the dancers as the sun quickly sank beneath the hills and walls of the town. Magic hovered in the air, sweet, nearly intoxicating in this much concentration. Everyone’s Magic was in the air, floating amongst the lights, dancing around.
High above the festivities, in the Tower of Wizards, a young boy looked on in wonder. He was a wizard’s apprentice, and wizards weren’t allowed to participate in the Festival. The magic floating in such concentration did terrible things to a person with the Gift to control it. The power it would give a wizard was absolute, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, so the saying goes. So the boy stayed in the tower, his hair turned silver, then white prematurely, as all wizards hair does, and he studied the Magic diligently, waiting for the chance to control the magic inside himself.