“Not a problem! Have a nice day!”

The bell above the door chimed daintily as it slammed shut, battered by a wind that almost took it off its hinges. Inside the tailor's shop was dark, lightless aside from a dim candle flickering back and forth, back and forth with the cold draught; only faint streams of sunlight filtered through the open window and the clouds above – winter was well on its way, and with it, shorter days.

To the tailor – Evander – it was merely one grim reminder that for the next few months he would be starting and finishing work under the cover of darkness. Six 'til six. Of course, 'work' was subjective. The shop averaged three customers a day, most looking for a cheap mend of their own travelling cloaks rather than a hand-sewn new one. They all spent their waking hours on whatever needed to be done, be it mining or fishing or hunting or forestry, while Evander was allowed to sit sticking needles into a pincushion for what seemed like an eternity every day.

The worst part of it all was that he wasn't allowed to leave even when it was painfully clear there would be no further customers, long after the streets had emptied and his parents and friends were all safely sequestered in their little houses, locked away from the ominous blackness that was the outside world. The landlord – land[i]lady[/i] – didn't do any work, just commanded him to do it as her apprentice, and all he could say was, “[i]Yes, mistress. Your wish is my command, mistress[/i].”

As it was, the only thing he [i]could[/i] do was nothing. Rocking rhythmically in the chair, ravelling and unravelling a bolt of silk cloth. It was a deep turquoise-slash-blue, the exact shade of glacial ice, and had he not done so before and been caught, he would have stowed it away in his backpack with none the wiser. Instead, he shook his head, muttering to himself, “Not now,” as he strode over to the door, peeking out at the desolate streets. The tailor's workshop just so happened to be right at the edge of town, marked by an empty clearing with the ragged edge of a forest cutting into it. Intellectually he knew that the next town over was in that direction, if he were to follow a meandering path around trees and stumps, but instinctively... well...

No, it was silly. Evander closed the door again, but stood behind it, his forehead pressed against the old oak wood. Two hours to kill in the shop behind him, or he could lock up early and bet on the fact that the owner wouldn't shop up to check on him. Two hours of nothing versus 'practice' – hiding in the hollow of a tree and turning the rain into snow, moulding ice into... well, anything small and sharp. He grabbed his cloak from the stand nearby, royal blue and lined with gold, and jogged out in the direction of the woods.

They were no less eerie than they were from a distance. Evander shuddered despite not feeling at all cold, thankful that to remain undetected he had to only take a few steps into the woods. He was brave! He knew that, but what was the point of putting himself in senseless danger? Taking off his gloves, he crouched down near the dull, moist leaves of the nearest plant – late-blooming flowers curling limply out from a bush. "Shh... don't worry now," he said, running a finger over the petals (if they could even be called that) of one. A cold mist rose from it as the raindrops – [i]most of them[/i] – froze over.

Not all of them. He'd forgotten about that, the fact that he was slowly, gradually getting worse and worse at using his abilities. He'd been much better at it in his early teens, with violent spikes of ice erupting from his fingertips at inopportune moments and furious snowstorms rolling into town without warning from the skies. Evander was lucky that they'd all been easily hidden, that he was able to hold his tongue and his temper in check until he was alone. It was impossible to tell what caused it – was it a bodily change, did it only work for young boys and not men? Did the Gods or whatever that ruled over his fate just [i]hate[/i] him? It burned inside not being able to do those things and the vortex of shame and embarrassment, even if nobody else could see it, only made it more difficult to summon frost.

Evander leaned back against the wet bark of the tree behind him, droplets of rain collecting first on the leaves and then dripping down onto his face somberly. They villagers would probably call him melancholic, if he went back down, soaked through to the skin with a permanent loss etched into his face. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on platinum blonde locks. [i]Why is this happening? What did I do to deserve this? All I want... all I want...[/i] His eyes itched just a little bit, or at least that was his excuse. [i]...is to be able to do something with this. To be powerful.[/i]

Well, that was that then. Time of self-realisation over and–

A wolf howled, closer than he would have expected. The dual-toned sound resonated through his limbs, tingled his fingers with terror. He didn't particularly like wolves, as his last trip to the mountain had emphasised. Four years ago, they had pounced, and that was the last time he had truly been able to effectively use his abilities – the last display of power he'd been able to muster. Evander supposed they could smell the blood of their allies on them. One of his apprenticeships in the village, when he was still flighty and indecisive and all about fighting and sport as most young men were, had been as a hunter. Of course, the only animals he'd slaughtered were the savage wolves that wandered too close to town – sometimes for the safety of the people, sometimes for their pelt and gold.

Evander saw the Beast; fur pitch-black and easily visible even though the sun hadn't quite set yet, with eyes that didn't sparkle with any sort of life nor recognition. The tailor staggered back to his feet, bracing himself against the tree behind him rather than running. It was circling rather close, and the damned thing was at least up to his knees – larger than any [i]wolf[/i] he'd ever seen before. A nightmare stuck in real life.

His fight or flight response malfunctioned.

His heart started thudding, pounding in his chest with every tentative step the Beast took towards him.

A gasp – one last breath before he was savaged to death – came out frozen.

[i]This is it,[/i] Evander thought mournfully. [i]The end... I'm sorry, Father... Just...[/i]. He couldn't help but expect to suddenly burst out with shards of ice as sharp as blades, kill the wolf and save his own sorry life but he knew – he [i]knew[/i] – it wouldn't happen. The tailor held his head high, fingers bunched in his shirt. [i]Come on... come on... I don't want to [b]die[/b] here![/i] The Beast leapt at him and he closed his eyes without any thought from his conscious mind. It was karma, it was providential, it was all because he'd left the store door unlocked... yes, that was it...

There was a rip as a large hole opened up near where his stomach was, however, his flesh was untouched. Mixed with dark, sticky saliva was a piece of parchment, left in the tear. It must have been from the wolf's mouth, it had left it there purposefully. Trembling fingers picking it apart as the surreal experience started to numb his nerves and mind, he read:

"[i]You are one of six chosen few to receive this letter. You were chosen, because you wish for something with a great desire. So I shall grant you your wish. Into the Woods you must travel, to the Tree of Truth. There you will find me and if you follow my commands, you shall have your wish granted.[/i]"

It left him with more questions than answers, some he asked aloud. "Where is the Tree of Truth? Or, [i]what[/i] is it?" he questioned. "What are you?"

The Beast growled low in its throat as if trying to... trying to communicate, head bowed low in what the tailor suspected was mock submission, almost as if it were pretending (and joking) that he was some sort of king he served. It stared flatly at him then turned to trot back from whence it came but not before giving him a universal gesture for him to follow. Evander nearly sobbed, partly because of the adrenaline ebbing from his system. The rest was in desperation – if this was the only way he would be able to find his [i]true[/i] calling, to use his magic, then so be it. [i]I'm sorry, Father,[/i] he repeated, chasing the creature deeper into the woods, hoping fervently that this wasn't all some elaborate plot.