"Magic, like prophecy, tends to find its mark regardless of aim. It is less important to be accurate than it is to be ready when the inevitable misfire occurs." — Excerpt from The Skeptic's Guide to Accidental Destiny

  The midnight sky above the ancient stone circle was perfectly clear, which was, in itself, suspicious. In this corner of the Otherworld, where the veil between realms thinned to gossamer, the weather generally had the decency to match momentous magical occasions with appropriate meteorological drama. Lightning, at minimum. Preferably with ominous thunder at dramatically significant moments. Perhaps a mysterious fog that curled around ancient stones like ghostly fingers.

  But tonight? Stars. Thousands of them, scattered across the velvet darkness like diamond dust, twinkling with what almost seemed like amusement.

  "I don't like it," muttered Archmage Thorion, adjusting his midnight-blue robes for the seventh time in as many minutes. "Clear skies on the night of the Great Convergence? It's practically an omen."

  "Everything is an omen to you," replied Magister Vex, who was carefully arranging crystalline bowls around the perimeter of the stone circle. Each bowl contained a different substance—morning dew collected from thirteen separate spiderwebs, ground moonstone harvested during an eclipse, tears from a truly terrible poet—all the standard components for a ritual of cosmic significance. "Last week, you said your breakfast eggs being slightly overcooked was an omen."

  "And wasn't I right?" Thorion stroked his impressively groomed beard, which managed to be both luxuriously full and precisely trimmed, a feat that required two separate enchantments and a specially formulated beeswax. "The trade negotiations with the Dwarven Conclave collapsed that very afternoon."

  "Because you accused the head delegate of having 'the magical aptitude of a particularly dim-witted turnip,'" Vex reminded him, "not because your eggs were overdone."

  "The events are connected," Thorion insisted. "Cosmic harmony and all that."

  The third figure in the circle said nothing, focusing instead on transcribing ancient symbols onto the central altar stone with a brush made from the whiskers of a sphinx. Lady Nyx was the youngest of the three mages that comprised the Inner Circle of the Shadow Council, though 'young' was relative when one had been practicing the dark arts for nearly two centuries. While her colleagues bickered, she worked, her movements precise and economical.

  "The Som Moor configuration is nearly complete," she announced, interrupting what had devolved into an argument about the proper way to fold napkins at formal magical gatherings. "We should begin the summoning while the Crimson Star is directly overhead."

  The Crimson Star, contrary to its name, was neither red nor technically a star. It was the rogue planet Theraxis, which orbited the sun in a wildly elliptical pattern that brought it into alignment with the Otherworld once every seventy-three years. Tonight's alignment was particularly potent, occurring in conjunction with a lunar eclipse and the annual migration of the ethereal jellyfishes that floated through the upper atmosphere, consuming dreams and leaving behind crystallized nightmares that the locals collected and sold as paperweights.

  "Yes, yes," Thorion agreed, moving to his position with a swirl of robes that was entirely unnecessary but precisely calibrated for maximum dramatic effect. "The prophecy is clear. 'When the Crimson Star aligns with the Teeth of the Old Ones, the Archmage shall return through the veil, bringing either salvation or destruction.'"

  "That's not what the prophecy says at all," Vex said, adjusting his spectacles, which served no practical purpose since his vision had been magically corrected decades ago. The spectacles were purely for aesthetic effect, lending him an air of scholarly authority that offset his unfortunate tendency to snort when he laughed. "It says, 'When the Crimson Star aligns with the Teeth of the Old Ones, seek the one who walks between worlds, for they shall—'"

  "I've read the prophecy," Thorion snapped. "I've studied it for forty years."

  "Apparently not closely enough," Vex muttered.

  "If you two are quite finished," Nyx said, her voice carrying the particular tone of someone who has become accustomed to being the only adult in a room full of children despite technically being the youngest, "the alignment is occurring as we speak. The ritual must begin now, or we'll have to wait another seventy-three years."

  This sobered the other two mages immediately. None of them wanted to wait that long, particularly since the Great Peace Treaty was to be signed in exactly fourteen days. The treaty would unite the four magical kingdoms that had been locked in a state of cold war for centuries—the Elven Dominion, the Dwarven Conclave, the Sylvan Collective, and the Human Confederation. Such unity would make the Shadow Council's plans for magical domination considerably more difficult.

  "Let us begin," Thorion intoned, raising his arms toward the sky in a gesture universal among wizards for "behold my tremendous mystical importance."

  Vex and Nyx took their positions, forming a perfect triangle around the altar stone. Each withdrew a crystal orb from their robes—Thorion's glowing with amber light, Vex's pulsing with a deep sapphire radiance, and Nyx's swirling with smoky violet energy.

  "These communication orbs will allow us to contact our agents across the realm once the ritual is complete," Nyx explained, though they all knew this. She had a habit of narrating magical procedures, a quirk she had developed during her early teaching days at the Academy of Enigmatic Arts. "They are attuned to the magical signature we are attempting to trace."

  "The Archmage Willam," Thorion said reverently. "The most powerful wizard ever to walk between the realms."

  "Allegedly," Vex couldn't help adding. "The historical records from that period are notoriously unreliable. Half of them were written by a chronicler who was known to be catastrophically nearsighted and frequently confused magical battles with particularly ambitious baking competitions."

  "Regardless," Nyx interrupted before Thorion could launch into one of his infamous tirades about respecting magical heritage, "we seek to locate any trace of his essence. The prophecy suggests a return, but whether that means the actual Archmage or merely someone bearing his power remains unclear."

  "It's him," Thorion insisted. "The stars have aligned too perfectly for it to be otherwise."

  The three mages closed their eyes and began to chant, their voices weaving together in the ancient language of magic, a tongue so old that the words themselves had forgotten their original meanings and were now simply vessels for power. The crystal orbs rose from their hands, floating to meet above the altar stone, where they began to orbit each other in increasingly complex patterns.

  The air thickened with potential energy. The runes Lady Nyx had painted on the altar stone began to glow with an inner light, first blue, then green, then a deep crimson that matched the color of the planet overhead.

  Around the stone circle, the thirteen crystalline bowls levitated, their contents swirling into the air to form a spiraling mist that surrounded the three mages. The mist condensed, becoming denser and darker, until it resembled a swirling vortex of night sky, complete with tiny pinpricks of light like captured stars.

  "The veil thins," Vex whispered, his voice strange and distorted as if coming from a great distance. "I can feel the other realms pressing against our own."

  "Focus on the Archmage," Thorion commanded. "Focus on his essence. The ritual will seek him out across the boundaries between worlds."

  The vortex of starry mist began to spin faster, the tiny lights elongating into streaks as the rotation increased. The three crystal orbs at the center pulsed in unison, their lights blending into a single brilliant white beam that shot upward toward the Crimson Star.

  For a moment, everything seemed to be proceeding according to plan. The ritual was reaching its crescendo, the magical energies coalescing exactly as the ancient texts had described. The mages could feel the boundaries between worlds growing permeable, their senses extending beyond their own realm.

  And then, quite suddenly, everything went wrong.

  It began with a subtle shift in the vortex's rotation, a slight wobble that might have been dismissed as a minor fluctuation if not for the way the crystalline bowls began to vibrate. One by one, they shattered, sending fragments of enchanted crystal flying in all directions. The shards froze in mid-air, suspended momentarily before transforming into tiny hummingbirds made of glass that darted around the circle in frantic patterns.

  "This isn't in the grimoire," Vex noted with scholarly dismay, ducking as a glass hummingbird whizzed past his ear.

  The beam of light connecting the orbs to the Crimson Star fractured, splitting into hundreds of smaller beams that scattered in all directions like a magical fireworks display gone horribly awry. The orbs themselves began to spin erratically, their surfaces rippling as if they were liquid rather than solid crystal.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "What's happening?" Thorion demanded, his voice rising to a pitch that would have been embarrassing under less catastrophic circumstances. "This isn't how it's supposed to go!"

  Lady Nyx, always the most practical of the three, was already consulting a small book bound in what appeared to be the hide of some unfortunate and presumably extinct magical creature. "The ritual is seeking the Archmage's essence, but something's interfering with the locator spell," she called over the increasingly loud humming that emanated from the vortex. "It's as if there are multiple matches, or the signature is fragmented somehow."

  "Impossible," Thorion insisted. "The Archmage's magical signature is unique. There can't be multiple matches unless—" He broke off, his eyes widening with a mixture of horror and excitement. "Unless the prophecy refers not to the Archmage himself, but to his power, distributed across multiple vessels."

  "Or the spell is simply failing spectacularly," Vex suggested, in the tone of someone who has witnessed many magical experiments go catastrophically wrong and has developed a certain sang-froid about the whole business. "Which seems more likely, given the circumstances."

  Those circumstances were rapidly deteriorating. The runes on the altar stone had begun to rearrange themselves, forming new patterns that none of the mages recognized. The glass hummingbirds had merged into a single crystalline serpent that slithered through the air in complex knots. And most alarmingly, the three crystal orbs had begun to multiply, splitting and replicating until dozens of identical orbs hovered above the altar, each containing a swirling miniature galaxy.

  "We need to stabilize the ritual," Nyx shouted over the din, which now included a sound like thousands of windchimes being thrown down a marble staircase. "Channel more power into the primary containment field!"

  The three mages linked hands, forming a circle around the chaotic magical display. They began a new chant, this one focused on containment rather than seeking, their voices strained with effort as they attempted to rein in the wild magic they had unleashed.

  Gradually, painfully, the chaos began to subside. The crystalline serpent dissolved into mist. The excess orbs began to merge back into the original three. The runes on the altar stone stabilized, though they still formed a pattern none of the mages had intended.

  "There," Thorion panted, sweat dripping from his brow despite the cool night air. "Crisis averted."

  It was at that precise moment that the altar stone cracked clean down the middle with a sound like thunder finally arriving at its cue, several minutes too late.

  A blinding light erupted from the fissure, forcing the mages to shield their eyes. When they could see again, the three crystal orbs had descended to hover just above the broken altar, but they had changed. Instead of their previous colors, all three now swirled with a strange, mottled energy that shifted between shades of brown, white, and dark brown in a pattern that reminded Vex uncomfortably of a half-mixed chocolate batter.

  "What does it mean?" Thorion asked, staring at the transformed orbs.

  Nyx approached cautiously, her brow furrowed in concentration as she studied the swirling pattern. "The ritual was successful, after a fashion," she said slowly. "The orbs have locked onto a magical signature, but it's... strange. Unlike anything I've encountered before."

  "Is it the Archmage?" Thorion pressed.

  "I... don't know," Nyx admitted, which was unusual for her. "The signature is both incredibly powerful and oddly... mundane. As if it's simultaneously the strongest and weakest magical presence I've ever sensed."

  "Schr?dinger's wizard," Vex murmured. "Fascinating."

  "The orbs are attuned now," Nyx continued. "They'll lead us to whoever or whatever bears this signature. But we should proceed with caution. This was not the outcome we expected."

  "The prophecy never specifies what form the Archmage's return will take," Thorion pointed out, his excitement returning. "This could still be exactly what was foretold."

  "Or it could be a catastrophic magical anomaly that will unravel the fabric of our realm if mishandled," Vex countered cheerfully. "Either way, it promises to be interesting."

  "We will observe first," Nyx decided, taking one of the orbs and carefully stowing it in a pouch at her belt. "No direct contact until we understand what we're dealing with. The other Council members must be informed, but discretely. If word of this reaches the treaty signatories..."

  "Panic, accusations, possibly a pre-emptive magical strike," Thorion nodded. "Yes, discretion is essential."

  Each of the mages took one of the transformed orbs, securing them within enchanted containers designed to mask their magical emanations. The ritual had concluded, though certainly not as they had planned. The night sky remained stubbornly clear, the stars twinkling with what now seemed less like amusement and more like anticipation.

  "I still don't like it," Thorion muttered, looking up at the Crimson Star, which had begun its slow journey back to the outer reaches of the solar system. "Clear skies. Definitely an omen."

  "Perhaps," Nyx conceded, her gaze fixed on the pouch containing her orb. "But of what, we've yet to determine."

  What none of them realized, as they gathered their remaining equipment and prepared to return to the Shadow Council's hidden headquarters, was that at that precise moment, in a small video store in Wisconsin, Bill Parkman was alphabetizing the documentary section while humming a tune he'd heard on the radio and contemplating whether to have pizza or leftover Chinese food for dinner.

  The universe has a sense of humor. It's not a particularly sophisticated one, tending toward the cosmic equivalent of a practical joke involving a whoopee cushion and an important dignitary. But in this case, it had outdone itself. For the ritual had indeed found what it sought—the essence of the Archmage—just not in the form anyone expected.

  In the days that followed, the three mages would study their orbs obsessively, catching glimpses of a strange, mundane world and an even stranger man who seemed utterly oblivious to the fate that was about to befall him. They would debate and argue and theorize, but none of their theories would come close to the truth.

  The truth was simultaneously simpler and more complicated: Bill Parkman was not the Archmage reborn or the bearer of ancient power or the fulfillment of prophecy. He was just a man who had perfected the art of being exactly who he was, without pretense or aspiration to be anything else. And in a universe built on illusion and expectation, such authenticity was the rarest magic of all.

  In the small wooden chamber deep beneath an unremarkable hill that served as the Shadow Council's meeting room, thirteen figures in hooded robes gathered around a circular table. Each seat was marked with a symbol representing one of the fundamental forces of magic: Transformation, Binding, Severance, Illusion, and so forth. The three mages from the ritual occupied the seats of Vision, Knowledge, and Darkness, respectively.

  "Report," commanded the figure at the head of the table, whose mask bore the symbol of Dominion. Unlike the others, whose robes were varying shades of midnight blue or black, this figure wore robes of such profound darkness that they seemed to absorb the light around them, creating a person-shaped void.

  Thorion, seated in the Vision position, rose to his feet. "The ritual was... successful, Lord Umbra. We have located a magical signature that matches the prophecy's description."

  "Matches it exactly?" Lord Umbra asked, his voice as cold and empty as the space between stars.

  Thorion hesitated. "Not... exactly. There were complications."

  A murmur ran around the table. Complications, in magical rituals of cosmic importance, tended to be bad news.

  "What sort of complications?" asked the figure representing Binding, whose mask was adorned with intricate chains carved from bone.

  "The signature we detected is unusual," Nyx explained, rising from her seat at Darkness. "It exists between realms, as the prophecy suggests, but its nature is... contradictory. At once extraordinarily powerful and curiously mundane."

  "Show us," Lord Umbra commanded.

  The three mages produced their orbs, placing them on the table where they immediately began to hover, spinning slowly as they orbited each other. The strange, mottled pattern swirled within them, occasionally forming what looked like a face before dissolving back into chaos.

  "This is what we have observed so far," Vex said, pressing his finger to his orb. The surface rippled, and an image formed above the table—a projection of Bill Parkman shelving DVDs, his expression one of mild concentration as he ensured each case was perfectly aligned with its neighbors.

  The Council members leaned forward, studying the strange figure in his even stranger environment.

  "This is the Archmage?" asked the hooded figure representing Severance, skepticism evident even through their mask. "This... person who arranges rectangular objects?"

  "We believe so," Thorion said with far more confidence than was warranted. "The orbs are drawn to him. They show him constantly, regardless of how we attune them."

  "He resides in another realm," Nyx added. "One where magic appears to be... differently manifested. Our preliminary observations suggest it's a world where magic is hidden or dormant, channeled through artificial constructs." She gestured to the image of the television visible in the background of the projection.

  "Interesting," Lord Umbra said, leaning back in his seat. "And the timing aligns perfectly with the peace treaty signing. If this is indeed the Archmage returned, we must act quickly. The prophecy states he will bring either salvation or destruction. We must ensure it is the latter."

  "With respect, Lord Umbra," Vex interjected, "the prophecy actually states—"

  "I am well aware of what the prophecy states," Lord Umbra cut him off. "And I am equally aware of how prophecies can be... nudged... in the desired direction."

  The Council members nodded in understanding. Prophecies were tricky things, often worded with deliberate ambiguity. But with the right pressure applied at the right moment, they could be fulfilled in ways that benefited those doing the nudging.

  "We should send an agent through to observe him more closely," suggested the figure representing Illusion, whose mask shifted constantly between different faces. "Perhaps make contact."

  "Not yet," Lord Umbra decided. "First, we must understand his purpose. Why now? Why this form? The treaty signing is no coincidence. The Archmage's return at this precise moment must be connected."

  "Perhaps he intends to ensure the treaty succeeds," suggested Binding. "To unite the magical kingdoms against us."

  "Or to disrupt it himself," countered Severance. "The Archmage was known for working alone, trusting no one."

  "Regardless," Lord Umbra said, rising to his full, imposing height, "we cannot allow him to interfere with our plans. The Som Moor must be deployed at the signing ceremony. If the four kingdoms unite, our opportunity to seize control will vanish for a generation."

  The name 'Som Moor' sent another murmur around the table. The magical device had been centuries in the making, designed to absorb and redistribute magical energy on a massive scale. Deployed at the treaty signing, it would drain the magical capabilities of everyone present, transferring that power to the Shadow Council. In the chaos that followed, they would establish themselves as the only remaining magical authority.

  "We will watch this Archmage," Lord Umbra decided. "Learn his intentions. When the time is right, we will neutralize any threat he poses. Continue your observations. Report any change in his behavior or location."

  The Council members nodded in agreement, their attention returning to the projection hovering above the table. Bill Parkman was now examining a DVD case, his expression suggesting mild interest in whatever was depicted on its cover.

  None of them could have guessed that in exactly two weeks, this unremarkable man would stumble through a fairy ring into their realm, be immediately mistaken for the legendary wizard he so completely was not, and proceed to accidentally dismantle their centuries of plotting through a combination of misunderstandings, movie references, and an unflappable belief that none of it was real.

  But that was precisely what the universe, with its questionable sense of humor, had planned.

  And somewhere in the vast cosmos, in whatever dimension cosmic entities call home, something was laughing.