A Pillow Fight and a Proposition

Down and nylon had exploded across Wells's living room, creating a sprawling nest where Aidan, Vance, Nikolai, and Wells had burrowed into their sleeping bags. Mrs. Barlow drifted periodically through the chaos, her presence a gentle but persistent signal that bedtime was approaching. It was a signal they had mastered the art of ignoring since the age of eight.

Finally, her patience wore thin. "It's half-past ten," she announced, her voice sharp and final. "Your parents will have my head when they find out you were up this late." A tired, frustrated gaze swept across the four of them. When Wells parted his lips to protest, the words came out in a single, weary rush. "Don't you dare start with me, Wells Arthur Barlow."

"But Mom—"

"I said, don't start!"

At that moment, Uncle Jonas appeared in the doorway, and a respectful silence immediately fell over the boys. He looked as though he had stepped from the pages of some forgotten storybook, a figure who commanded an almost involuntary awe. He was a tall man, with a magnificent mane of gleaming silver hair and a bushy moustache to match. Gold-rimmed spectacles perpetually slid down his long, aristocratic nose, and a stunning sapphire ring glittered on his finger from within its gold band. He wore a deep blue, richly textured bathrobe over a slightly worn nightshirt, complete with a pair of soft slippers.

He surveyed the scene. "What's all this, then?" he inquired, his eyes lingering on Wells for a moment before his lips curved into a kind smile.

"It's their bedtime, Uncle Jonas, and they simply refuse to listen," Mrs. Barlow explained. As if on cue, Aidan smacked Vance over the head with a pillow, igniting a brief but vicious skirmish among the others. Mrs. Barlow frowned. "I swear I can feel my hair going gray."

"I see," Uncle Jonas murmured, his smile fading slightly under his niece's weary stare. "Well, that's a problem that certainly needs a solution. What can I do to help?" He glanced again at the four boys, a thoughtful glint in his eye. Sinking into one of the cluttered armchairs by the television, he declared, "I believe I have an idea. Why don't I tell them a story?"

The pillow fight ceased instantly. The boys scrambled back to their sleeping bags, wriggling inside with a newfound devotion. Uncle Jonas's smile returned. "That seems to have done the trick," he said to Mrs. Barlow. "Anna, why don't you head to bed yourself? You must be exhausted from watching over these little rascals."

Mrs. Barlow gave a tired nod. "It has been a long day," she admitted. "You know, I think I'll take you up on that, Uncle Jonas." She bid them goodnight and leaned down to kiss her son on the crown of his head—much to his profound and visible irritation—before making her way upstairs.

"Are you really going to tell us a story?" Wells asked, dragging his sleeping bag closer to his uncle's armchair. An extreme thinness seemed to be his defining physical trait; his face was narrow, his fingers long and delicate, and his limbs bony. The only thing not thin about him was his thick, unruly mop of hair, a shade somewhere between blond and brown, beneath which shone a pair of deep, contemplative blue eyes.

"Of course I am," Uncle Jonas assured him.

"Good," Wells said, his face alight with pleasure. "You never visit, so I never get to hear your stories."

Uncle Jonas’s eyes twinkled as he grinned at his nephew. "I shall have to remedy that in the future," he said. "Now, what tale shall it be, boys?"

"Tell us about the princess who slayed the dragon!" Aidan suggested excitedly. Though small and stocky, Wells’s best friend possessed a voice that more than made up for his diminutive size. He had a round face, parchment-pale skin, and deep-set chestnut eyes that matched his hair.

Vance scowled. "No, we've heard that one a dozen times," he countered. "I want a new one!" As the tallest and oldest of the group, Vance’s dark skin was a stark contrast to Aidan’s. His face was sharp, his black hair cut in a neat crop, and his eyes were small but bright with intelligence.

"Yeah, a new one!" Wells echoed.

"No," Aidan said firmly. "I want the dragon story!"

"A new one!"

"The dragon!"

"A new one!"

"The dragon!"

"Quiet now." Uncle Jonas’s voice cut effortlessly through the escalating argument. "You'll wake Mr. and Mrs. Barlow." The three boys fell silent at once, looking guiltily at the floor. He turned to the fourth boy. "Why don't we see what Nikolai wants to hear? Nikolai?"

Nikolai, who always spoke in a soft, quiet voice, looked up. Though he was the same age as the others, his delicate and fragile build made him appear at least a year younger. Like Wells, he had a thick thatch of hair that defied any civilizing influence of a comb, only his was the color of jet. His most arresting feature was his eyes: two brilliant pinpricks of icy blue that blazed from within his dark jungle of hair.

"Say you want the dragon story," Aidan whispered loudly in Nikolai's ear.

"Let him choose, Aidan," Uncle Jonas said gently. Aidan retreated into his sleeping bag.

All eyes turned to Nikolai, whose face flushed at the sudden attention. "I want to hear a new one," he whispered softly.

"Well, a new story it is," Uncle Jonas declared. He stood and switched off the lamps, plunging the room into a cozy gloom lit only by the distant glow of a streetlight. "Before I begin, I want everyone to lie flat on your backs and close your eyes. You must pay attention. The best way to see the story I'm about to tell is to see it in your minds."

Once they had complied, Uncle Jonas settled back into his chair. "Good, good," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, this is a story I heard a long, long time ago, many years before your parents were even born."

"Is it true?" Aidan interrupted, cracking one eye open to peer at the storyteller.

"It most certainly is," Uncle Jonas chuckled softly. "All stories are true, in their own way. Otherwise, what would be the point of telling them?" He leaned back in his chair. "Now, close that eye, and no more interruptions."

He waited until he was sure all eyes were shut before he began. "This story takes place in a land very far away, yet in some ways, quite similar to our own. I was eighteen years old when I first heard it. In fact, I had just bought this very ring." He held up his hand, briefly admiring the sapphire. It caught the dim light, shattering it into a thousand glittering sparks. "The man I bought it from told me of its previous owner. He was a boy, not much older than you all, and he was a wizard from another world."

"Another world?" Vance breathed in awe. "Did it have a name?"

"It did," Uncle Jonas replied. "Its name was—or perhaps is—Remira. And that world was filled with enchantment. A ring like this could make a wizard of any man. And besides wizards, there were kings and knights in towering castles, centaurs that roamed the ancient forests, and vast, uncharted oceans."

His voice trailed off as he watched the four boys, their faces screwed up in concentration, trying to conjure the world he was describing. He smiled and continued.

"So, this ring once belonged to a wizard." A loud snort came from Aidan's sleeping bag. Uncle Jonas looked toward him. "Yes, Mr. McDowell?" he inquired, his tone as patient as a teacher with a difficult student.

"Nothing," Aidan said. "It's just… it couldn't have been owned by a wizard."

"And why not?" Uncle Jonas asked, a wry smirk playing on his lips.

"It just… can't be!" Aidan insisted, sitting bolt upright. "You said this was a true story!"

"It is!" Vance shot back from his corner, sitting up as well.

"How?" Aidan pressed. "Wizards aren't real, stupid!"

"Be nice," Uncle Jonas chided gently. "There's no need for yelling. Why don't we agree, just for the duration of the story, that wizards do exist?"

"If you're going to do that, then I'm not listening," Aidan said with a smirk.

Uncle Jonas rolled his eyes. "All right. Then go to sleep. But please be quiet and don't interrupt the rest of us," he requested. Aidan turned his back on the group with a huff of disdain. "May I continue?" The other three boys nodded eagerly. "Very well."

"The magician had just completed his training, and he was filled with excitement, hungry for a grand adventure. But nothing at all was happening in Remira. The kings sulked in their palaces, the centaurs kept to their forests, and the knights had no one to fight. And so, the magician found himself wandering from place to place, performing simple tricks with his magic to entertain the folk in sleepy villages.

"But then, war broke out."