The Grimores

France — or rather, Frankia, as it was still called in the year of our Lord 1000 — awoke beneath a sky painted pearl-white with frost. The Seine shimmered like glass. The bells of Notre Dame tolled six times, echoing through narrow stone alleys and snow-covered rooftops.

Atop one of those rooftops, a twelve-year-old boy sat cross-legged in the snow, legs numb and backside thoroughly soaked.

He was reading the Bible.

“...and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen,” Hugo murmured, tapping the page thoughtfully with one gloved finger.

He closed the book gently, his silver cross bouncing lightly on his chest.

“I dunno, Matthew,” he muttered, glancing heavenward. “The end of the world might be sooner than you think. Especially if this city keeps feeding children pickled herring for breakfast.”

He sighed dramatically, holding the book aloft.

“Chapter Six, verse thirty-four: Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Spoken like someone who’s never been to a mana selection day!”

He leapt to his feet, wobbling slightly on the icy tiles. In the distance, the northern watchtower of Paris stood like a stony tooth against the pale sky.

The Watchtower of the Grimoire Ceremony.

A yearly tradition, held on the first Saturday of the new year — and, this time, the first Saturday of the new millennium.

It was the day when every person in Paris born with mana above the peasant average (i.e., more than “candle spark” level) was summoned to the tower. There, among towering walls lined with thousands of floating grimoires, each individual would receive the spellbook that resonated with their soul.

Hugo, naturally, was not invited.

“Twelve-year-olds who sleep on bakery roofs don’t usually get ceremonial scrolls,” he said aloud, hopping down from his perch with the Bible tucked under his arm. “But when has ‘not invited’ ever stopped me?”

—

At the base of the watchtower, a procession was already forming.

Priests in long crimson and ivory robes ushered boys and girls of various ages into the tower's great hall. They were examined, tested, whispered over. Some had their hands measured; others had their mana scanned by floating golden relics that hummed like beehives.

Most kids looked unimpressed. One boy was actively picking his nose.

Hugo, by contrast, slipped in through a second-floor window like a spider monkey, landing behind a stack of dusty candlesticks.

He dusted himself off and whispered, “Alright, step one: don't get caught. Step two: pretend I belong here. Step three: don’t let anyone notice I brought the Holy Scriptures to a place crawling with borderline atheists.”

He emerged from behind the candlesticks just in time to walk smack into a bishop.

The bishop — a stern man with an aquiline nose and unnervingly pale eyes — looked down at him with thinly veiled suspicion.

“You. Boy. Who are you?”

“Uh…” Hugo looked down at his peasant clothes. “I’m the… mana torch boy?”

The bishop narrowed his eyes. “There is no torch boy.”

“Then I’m very efficient,” Hugo grinned.

Before the bishop could excommunicate him on the spot, another priest stepped forward — a kindly older man with robes dusted in mana-sparkling snowflakes.

“Wait… is that a Bible?”

Hugo blinked. “Uh… yes?”

“You’re reading it?”

“Yes?”

“Of your own free will?”

“…Yes?”

A gasp rippled through the clerical staff. One nun fainted. A junior deacon choked on his incense.

“A twelve-year-old… who actually reads the Holy Scriptures,” the old priest whispered, crossing himself. “It’s a miracle.”

The bishop stared at Hugo as if he were an entirely new species. “You… believe in God?”

“Well, yeah,” Hugo said, shrugging. “I talk to Him all the time. He doesn’t say much back, but I figure He’s just a good listener.”

More gasps. One acolyte began to cry.

The old priest clapped his hands together. “Bring him into the hall. Let’s see what kind of grimoire seeks him out.”

The bishop frowned. “That is irregular—”

“So is divine intervention,” the priest shot back.

—

The Great Grimoire Hall was an enormous domed chamber, lined with towering walls covered in floating spellbooks. There were thousands — leather-bound, gold-edged, rust-covered, wrapped in chains, glowing with celestial light or smoldering with demonic heat.

Each new initiate stood in the center of the circle, and the grimoires would begin to glow, vibrate, or flat-out fly across the room to choose their master.

Hugo stepped into the circle. Everyone stared.

He rubbed his hands together.

“Alright, tower of magical death-books, let’s see what you got.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then — a rumble.

A dozen grimoires rattled.

Thirty more began to glow.

Then the chamber erupted in chaos.

Grimoires from every category — Normal, Abnormal, Divine, and even a few smoking Demonic ones — all shot out of their niches, circling Hugo like a tornado of arcane madness.

One priest screamed. Another began chanting prayers.

Hugo stood in the middle, blinking.

“Is this… good?”

Then — silence.

Every book dropped to the floor like a brick. All except one.

It floated down slowly, pages fluttering open, a soft golden aura emanating from it. It looked humble — old leather, cracked spine, worn ribbon. But its energy pulsed like a heartbeat.

It stopped in front of Hugo.

He reached out and took it.

The priests stared.

“That… that’s not a normal grimoire,” someone whispered.

“It’s not Demonic either.”

“It’s…”

“Divine,” the bishop finished, awestruck.

Hugo blinked. “Cool. Does it shoot fire?”

The book vibrated.

A flaming halo appeared above it.

“YES!” Hugo shouted, holding it aloft. “I AM THE HOLY FLAME!”

The bishop muttered something about heresy and walked away.