> *"The truly powerful wizards are those who appear to possess no power at all. They are the unassuming ones, those who move through the world as if it were ordinary, for in doing so, they bend reality to their perception."* — Excerpt from *Magical Misconceptions: Volume III*

  "Have you seen this one?" Bill Parkman asked, holding up a DVD case with the enthusiasm of a man who had discovered buried treasure rather than a fifteen-year-old movie about killer tomatoes. "It's the director's cut. Completely changes the subtext about vegetable sentience."

  The teenage couple staring back at him wore matching expressions of polite confusion. They had entered Parkman's Picture Palace—the last video rental store in Middleton, Wisconsin—seeking a romantic comedy for date night, not a lecture on B-movie vegetable horror.

  "We were actually looking for something with, um, Jennifer Aniston?" the girl ventured.

  "Oh." Bill's face fell momentarily before rebounding with unstoppable enthusiasm. "Well, I've got a whole Jennifer Aniston section! Did you know she was in a movie about a leprechaun before Friends? Totally different career trajectory. Could've been the queen of horror. Fascinating alternate timeline to consider."

  As Bill led them to a different section, weaving through the store's haphazardly organized aisles with the muscle memory of someone who had walked the same path thousands of times, he continued his stream-of-consciousness film commentary. The couple exchanged glances that silently communicated their growing certainty that they should have just used Netflix.

  Bill Parkman was not, by conventional standards, a successful man. At forty-five, he had worked at the same failing video store for twenty-two years. He lived in a small apartment above the shop, owned exactly three pairs of nearly identical jeans, and could recite the filmography of obscure Hungarian directors but frequently forgot to pay his electric bill. His worldly ambitions extended no further than acquiring the complete Criterion Collection and maybe, someday, convincing his boss to fix the flickering fluorescent light in the Foreign Films section.

  What Bill lacked in ambition, he made up for in genuine, puppy-like enthusiasm for movies and an inexplicable optimism that physical media would make a comeback "any day now." This optimism persisted despite abundant evidence to the contrary, including the fact that Parkman's Picture Palace now averaged approximately seven customers per day, three of whom never rented anything.

  "Here we go!" Bill announced, presenting the couple with a worn copy of "The Break-Up" as if delivering the Olympic torch. "Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn. Fascinating deconstruction of romantic comedy tropes. They don't end up together! Can you believe that? Completely subverts audience expectations. Revolutionary for 2006."

  The couple accepted the case with murmured thanks, clearly regretting their life choices.

  "Do you have a membership card?" Bill asked, bouncing back behind the counter with surprising agility for someone who considered walking to the mailbox "meaningful exercise."

  "No," the boyfriend replied, already reaching for his wallet with the resigned expression of someone about to participate in an obsolete ritual.

  "No problem! We can set one up. It's super quick," Bill assured them, producing a faded paper form from beneath the counter. The form had clearly been photocopied so many times that some of the text was now more suggestion than instruction. "It's free to join, and members get entered into our monthly raffle."

  "What's the prize?" the girl asked, seemingly against her better judgment.

  "A free rental!" Bill beamed. "And a box of microwave popcorn. Not the cheap kind, either. Movie theater butter. Really enhances the home viewing experience."

  As the boyfriend filled out the form, the bell above the door chimed, announcing another customer. Bill glanced up, his face lighting with recognition.

  "Earl! Tuesday already? Time flies when you're alphabetizing the horror section by monster type rather than director. Did you know we had seventeen different zombie movies but only three with werewolves? Seems like an underrepresented monster demographic, if you ask me."

  Earl Simmons, a sixty-something retired English teacher, nodded with the patient expression of a man who had endured Bill's tangential conversations weekly for over a decade. "Hello, Bill. Got that Kurosawa I asked about?"

  "Yes! Right here," Bill ducked beneath the counter and emerged with a DVD. "Had to move some things around to find it. Did you know we had it filed under 'samurai' instead of 'foreign'? Cross-genre categorization dilemma. I've been thinking we should implement a tag-based system instead of rigid categories. Like the internet, but with physical objects. Revolutionary, right?"

  Earl accepted the DVD with a nod that acknowledged Bill's words without specifically agreeing with them—a skill he had perfected during their long acquaintance.

  After completing the new membership process for the young couple (which involved significantly more conversation about film preservation techniques than they had anticipated) and checking out Earl's rental (with a bonus ten-minute monologue about Kurosawa's influence on Star Wars), Bill found himself alone in the store again.

  He spun slowly in the squeaky office chair behind the counter, gazing at the rows of DVDs and Blu-rays that represented his entire world. The afternoon sun filtered through dusty venetian blinds, creating stripes of light across movie posters for films that had left theaters years ago. The quiet was broken only by the gentle hum of the ancient refrigerator in the employee break room (a generous term for what was essentially a closet with a microwave) and the occasional car passing on Main Street.

  Bill was midway through reorganizing the Staff Picks display (all selected by him, despite not technically being the manager) when the phone rang. He stared at it with mild surprise—phone calls were rare enough at Parkman's Picture Palace that each ring prompted momentary confusion, as if a toaster had suddenly started playing jazz.

  "Parkman's Picture Palace," he answered cheerfully, "where we still believe in the magic of physical media and the joy of rewinding! Bill speaking."

  "Bill? Is that how you answer a business phone?"

  Bill straightened instinctively at the voice. Linda Parkman-Harrington, his younger sister, had a tone that could correct his posture from a thousand miles away.

  "Linda! I was just thinking about you. Well, not specifically you. I was reorganizing our romantic comedy section and remembering how you used to cry at the end of 'Sleepless in Seattle,' which got me thinking about how different our tastes in movies are, which is weird considering our shared genetics and—"

  "Bill," Linda interrupted, familiar with her brother's verbal meandering. "How are you?"

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "Great! Wonderful. Business is booming. Well, not booming exactly. More like... politely existing. But I shelved seventeen new titles yesterday! Well, new to us. Traded with that store in Madison that's closing. Did you know they had seven copies of 'The English Patient'? Who needs seven? I only took three. Seemed reasonable."

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, the kind of silence that Bill had learned usually preceded either an announcement or a lecture. He braced for either.

  "I'm calling because Raymond and I are renting a place in England for a month," Linda said finally. "A manor house in the countryside. Very quaint, very charming, absolutely massive because Raymond can't do anything halfway."

  "England! Home of James Bond and Monty Python and those period dramas where everyone's angry but too polite to say anything directly," Bill responded enthusiastically. "Are you calling to recommend British films I should stock? Because I've been thinking our UK horror section is woefully understocked. They make the best slow-burn supernatural stuff. Very repressed. Very effective."

  "No, Bill," Linda's voice softened unexpectedly. "I'm calling because I want you to come visit."

  Bill dropped the DVD case he'd been fidgeting with. It clattered to the counter, a sound that perfectly matched his internal surprise.

  "Me? Visit England? With you and Raymond?" The words came out as separate questions, each one more incredulous than the last.

  "Yes, Bill. For a week, maybe two if you can get away from the... store." The slight pause suggested she was diplomatically avoiding words like "failing" or "obsolete" or "hobby that somehow pays rent."

  "But why?" The question escaped before Bill could sensor it.

  Another pause, longer this time. "Because you're my brother and I miss you. And because I think it would be good for you to see something new. Maybe get some... perspective."

  "Perspective," Bill repeated, suddenly understanding. This wasn't just an invitation; it was an intervention with complimentary scones and clotted cream. "Linda, I'm perfectly happy here. I don't need to see castles and double-decker buses to appreciate my life."

  "I know you think that," Linda replied, her tone carefully neutral in a way that suggested she absolutely did not know or believe that. "But when was the last time you left Wisconsin? Or took a vacation? Or did anything that didn't involve categorizing movies other people made rather than living your own life?"

  Bill opened his mouth to deliver a spirited defense of his perfectly satisfying existence, then closed it again. The truth was, he couldn't remember his last vacation. Or the last time he'd done anything that could be described as an adventure rather than a routine variation. His life had a pleasant predictability to it—wake up, watch part of an obscure film with breakfast, work at the store, watch another film after closing, sleep, repeat.

  "I'd have to find someone to cover the store," he said finally, his token resistance already crumbling. "Tess only works weekends, and Garry would probably just use it to screen his experimental short films again."

  "So you'll come?" Linda's voice brightened with surprised delight.

  "I didn't say—"

  "Great! I'll email you the details. Raymond's having some kind of business dinner with potential investors, but the house is enormous, and there's this amazing fantasy role-playing experience nearby that I've already bought you a ticket for."

  "Fantasy role-playing?" Bill perked up despite himself. "Like people dressed as elves and wizards and things? With fake swords and magic spells?"

  "Exactly," Linda confirmed, clearly relieved he was showing interest. "It's called 'Realms of Wonder.' Supposed to be incredibly immersive—professional actors, special effects, the works. I thought you might enjoy it, given your love of... stories."

  Bill's resistance evaporated completely, replaced by growing excitement. "That actually sounds pretty cool. Like living in a movie for a day instead of just watching one. Do I get to choose my character? Because I've always thought I'd make an excellent wizard. Not the long-beard type, more the mysterious-stranger-with-hidden-powers variety. Very Gandalf-meets-Constantine."

  "I'm sure they'll find something perfect for you," Linda said, the smile evident in her voice. "So it's settled? You'll come?"

  "I guess so," Bill agreed, already imagining himself dramatically casting spells in an English forest. "When?"

  "Two weeks from now. I'll email everything tonight—flights, details about the house, information on the fantasy experience. It's all arranged; you just need to pack and show up."

  After they hung up, Bill sat in stunned silence for several minutes, trying to process what had just happened. He was going to England. He was going to stay in a manor house. He was going to pretend to be a wizard in something called "Realms of Wonder."

  The bell above the door chimed again, jolting him from his daze. An elderly woman entered, clutching a DVD case protectively to her chest.

  "Good afternoon!" Bill greeted her, his voice slightly higher than normal with residual excitement. "Welcome to Parkman's Picture Palace! Did you find everything you were looking for? Did you know I'm going to England to be a wizard? Not a real wizard, obviously. That would be insane. A pretend wizard in a fantasy role-playing thing. With special effects! And actors playing elves!"

  The woman blinked slowly at him, then placed her DVD on the counter. "I'd like to return this, please. My grandson recommended it, but there was far too much nakedness for my taste."

  Bill glanced down at the case. "'Eyes Wide Shut.' Yes, Kubrick's exploration of sexual politics and marital fidelity does feature substantial nudity. Interesting final film for him. Did you know Tom Cruise spent 15 months filming it? Record-breaking production schedule. Would you prefer something with less nudity? I could recommend several excellent films about repressed British people exchanging meaningful glances across drawing rooms. Actually, I should watch those myself since I'm going to England. Research purposes."

  The woman stared at him for a long moment. "I think I'll just return this one for now."

  After she left, Bill pulled out his phone and composed a text to Tess, the college student who worked weekends: *Going to England to be a wizard. Need you to cover store for 2 weeks. Will pay double. Bring me back something with the Queen on it!!*

  Bill's immediate correction arrived moments later: *Going to England for fantasy role-playing experience. Much more normal. Still need coverage. Double pay offer stands.*

  Tess's response came quickly: *OMG ENGLAND??? When??? Double pay = YES!*

  Bill typed back: *Two weeks. Bring me back something with the Queen on it!!*

  He didn't have the heart to tell her the Queen had died. He made a mental note to find something with whatever royal was currently on the merchandise.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of excited planning and distracted customer service. Bill told every person who entered the store about his upcoming international adventure, regardless of whether they asked or showed any interest. He even told the delivery guy who dropped off a package clearly addressed to the dry cleaner next door.

  That night, in his small apartment above the video store, Bill pulled his ancient suitcase from the back of his closet. It still bore a faded sticker from a motel in Georgia, a relic from a road trip that had ended when his ex-girlfriend decided she couldn't spend another day listening to Bill's detailed analysis of how "Jaws" revolutionized the summer blockbuster.

  As he contemplated what to pack for England (and more importantly, for his wizarding adventure), Bill felt a strange mixture of excitement and nervousness. He'd spent his entire adult life in the comfortable bubble of Parkman's Picture Palace, watching other people's adventures unfold on screen. Now he was about to step into a real-life adventure of his own.

  Or at least, a meticulously produced simulation of one.

  Either way, it would make a change from alphabetizing the documentary section by subject matter versus filmmaker—a taxonomical debate that had occupied his thoughts for the better part of a week.

  "Wizard Bill," he said to his reflection in the bathroom mirror, striking what he imagined was a mystical pose. "Has a nice ring to it."

  Little did he know that in two weeks' time, he would find himself mistaken for a legendary wizard, hunted by magical assassins, and inadvertently saving an entire realm from destruction—all while firmly believing he was simply participating in an elaborate role-playing experience with excellent production values.

  But that was fourteen days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes in the future. For now, Bill Parkman was just a video store clerk with a plane ticket to buy and a drawer full of passports to locate. And he was almost certain he remembered where he'd put the passport. Probably in the drawer with the take-out menus. Or possibly with the DVD cases for rentals that had never been returned.

  Or, come to think of it, maybe he'd have to apply for a new one.

  With a sigh, Bill pulled out his phone and composed a new text to Tess: *How quickly can you get a passport these days?*

  The small apartment filled with the sounds of "The Lord of the Rings" soundtrack, which Bill had put on "for research purposes." He hummed along tunelessly as he pulled random items from his closet and tossed them in the general direction of his suitcase, preparing for an adventure that would prove far more magical—and far more dangerous—than he could possibly imagine.