The spires of Sorcerer’s Pinnacle, the gleaming towers of the city’s elite wizards, always seemed like a world apart from the humble wizarding villages where Amir grew up. Yet, somehow, here he was, perched among its highest offices as Cleric Amir of the Tower. His peers, with their silver-threaded robes and polished staffs, whispered behind his back, casting sidelong glances at his dusty brown hat and the shaggy field dog that padded at his heels. Amir pretended not to notice, though the whispers were sharp as needles.

"Nice chain, Amir," one of the younger clerics had remarked the other day, his lips curling in a smirk. "It’s almost as shiny as the farmer’s sickle you probably carried to get here."

Amir had only smiled, gripping the ornate quill in his hand tightly. He didn’t rise to the bait—he never did. Years in the fields, trudging through muck and biting winds to fetch herbs for potions or scrounge reagents from the dirt, had taught him patience. Instead, he adjusted the heavy gold chain draped over his embroidered purple robes and muttered, “You’ll thank the farmer when you need a crop of mandrake to save your skin.”

The truth was, Amir hated the towers. He hated the stifling air, the echoing marble corridors, and the constant thrum of magical wards buzzing overhead. He hated the sneering laughter of his colleagues and the endless bureaucratic rituals of tower life. Magic wasn’t meant to be confined to scrolls and gilded offices. It belonged to the soil, the rain, and the wild energy of the open fields.

Amir’s dog, a shaggy, dirt-brown mutt named Mallow, seemed to share his disdain. The familiar hated the polished floors and pristine tapestries of the tower. Whenever they ventured into the lower city, Mallow practically danced in the mud, barking and wagging his tail as if to say, Finally, somewhere real.

“Can’t take the field out of the dog, huh?” Amir had joked once, scratching behind Mallow’s ears as the dog rolled in the dirt. He’d said it lightly, but the truth of it gnawed at him. He couldn’t take the field out of himself, either.

Amir’s family had worked the earth for generations, laboring as hedge wizards and potion brewers in the small, windswept villages that dotted the countryside. They’d scraped by with barely enough gold to live on, bartering their services for sacks of grain or a few good apples. Amir was the first in his family to be offered a tower position, a mark of supposed prestige. His parents had been overjoyed, and Amir had smiled for their sake. But when he stepped into the tower, he realized quickly that its glittering facade hid the same entrenched hierarchies and snobbery he thought he’d left behind.

The gold chain, the purple robes—they were his armor. If the other wizards wanted to sneer, they could, but Amir refused to let them see him falter. Still, there were moments when he couldn’t help but dream of leaving it all behind. The fields called to him: the wild magic in a thunderstorm, the soft glow of fireflies over an enchanted glade, the satisfaction of coaxing life from barren soil. The towers had knowledge, yes, but they lacked soul.

For now, Amir bided his time. He diligently attended the summoning councils, penned the ritual scrolls, and performed the duties expected of him, all while his mind wandered to open skies and untamed places. One day, he promised himself, he’d walk away from the spires and never look back. For now, though, he took comfort in Mallow’s warm presence by his side and the knowledge that the land would always be waiting for him when he was ready to return.

Entered by: 0x5798…0ebe