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ENCHANTER APPRENTICE

CHAPTER ONE: THE BLOOD PRICE

Daramola didn’t wait for the closing bell to stop ringing.

The moment the teacher stepped out of the classroom, he sprang from his seat, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears. His legs moved faster than his thoughts, bag bouncing behind him, his eyes flicking left and right like a hunted animal. He wasn’t trying to beat traffic or catch the school bus. No. He was running from Tobi.

Tobi—the tyrant of their class. Tall, broad-shouldered, and born with the cruelty of a street lion. He wasn’t just a bully; he was a tormentor. His eyes always held that lazy fire of someone who enjoyed watching others squirm. And for some reason, Daramola was his favorite prey.

Earlier that day, Tobi had snatched Daramola’s pen again. It wasn’t just any pen. It was the only one his mother could afford that week after paying off part of his tuition debt. Daramola had asked politely—twice—but Tobi laughed in that mocking, devil-may-care tone and waved the pen in the air like a prize.

Daramola had snapped. He snatched the pen back.

Tobi had turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. “Pray that the school doesn’t close today,” he said, voice deep, quiet, deadly.

That was why Dara ran now, choosing the long path through the fence instead of heading for the bus park. The school gate loomed ahead like a promise of escape. But just as he turned the corner leading out, he froze.

Four hefty boys blocked the narrow path. One of them leaned lazily against the wall, tapping his boots. They looked like wolves waiting for the lamb to fall into their trap. Then, from behind them, Tobi appeared.

Daramola’s chest caved inward.

Tobi grinned, the scar on his left cheek stretching as he spoke. “Where do you think you’re going, rat?”

Before Daramola could utter a word, a fist collided with his stomach. Pain shot through his body like an electric surge. He dropped to the ground, gasping, curling up like a coiled python. Kicks followed. Heavy, merciless. His bag was torn off his shoulders. Books spilled into the dust like broken dreams. He heard one of them laughing, felt his phone being yanked from his pocket, his lunch money grabbed with mocking whistles.

The pain wasn't just physical—it was humiliation that burned the deepest. And to add salt to his wounds, as they walked away—Tobi swaggering into a black Toyota parked by the roadside—Daramola saw the driver watching, unbothered, like someone watching dogs play in the dirt.

When they finally left, Daramola lay still, blood pooling in his mouth, his ribs aching. Slowly, he staggered to his feet, spat out red saliva, and wiped his face with the back of his hand. He gathered his scattered books with trembling fingers and slung the torn bag over his shoulder. His feet dragged along the dusty road, every step a new jolt of pain.

The sky above him was grey, like it understood his mood.

When he got home, his mother looked up from the basin where she was washing okra. Her face crumpled into concern.
“Ah ah! Daramola! What happened to you? Look at your shirt. Look at your face!”

He forced a smile. “A bike man hit me by mistake… small thing, nothing serious.”

She sighed and shook her head. “You children should be more careful. These keke and okada people won’t kill somebody one day.”

He nodded and walked past her into his room. But deep down, something inside him boiled.

That night, he didn’t eat. His body ached, but it wasn’t hunger that gnawed at him—it was rage. It sat in his belly like coals. Tobi had crossed the line. This wasn’t the first time, but it would be the last. He had reported him before—plenty times. But the school did nothing. Because Tobi’s father was a senator, a powerful man whose name opened doors and shut mouths.

Daramola sat in the dark, staring at the wall, until his eyes drifted to his elder brother’s bookshelf. At the top was an old leather-bound book—dusty, blackened at the edges, its cover marked with ancient symbols.

Their grandfather's book.

Grandpa Adewale had been a quiet man with strange eyes. People whispered that he had been a grandmaster in an old cult—one that dealt in things not of this world. When he died, they found books no one could explain, scrolls written in languages forgotten. Daramola had once sneaked one and hidden it.

His parents had warned them. Never touch those books. Never.

But tonight, he didn’t care.

He crept into his brother’s room and took the forbidden book. Inside, the pages were yellowed with time. One inscription caught his eye: “The Book of Moses: Power over the Seen and Unseen.” His hands trembled as he turned page after page, symbols dancing in the candlelight. He read until his eyes burned.

Then he went online.

He asked an AI assistant: “How can someone get real metaphysical power?”

What came back shook him.

A ritual. Dark. Intense. Involving a live ram. Words not meant to be spoken aloud.

Saturday came. His parents were out. His siblings gone to church. He wore an old hoodie, took the savings his mother kept under her pillow, and headed to the ram market.

The ram cost more than he had, but his face looked so desperate the seller pitied him and gave him a small one. He dragged it home, legs trembling, heart beating like a drum in a funeral march.

Upstairs, in his room, he drew the sigil with chalk and salt just like the book said. The ram stood, restless, sensing danger. Daramola knelt, chanted the words. Latin. Hebrew. Words heavy with power. The air grew thick. His ears began to ring.

Then everything changed.

The walls shook violently. A wind howled through the closed windows. Bright green light burst from the floor, swirling into the ceiling like a tornado. Daramola’s eyes rolled back.

Then he heard it.

A voice—not human, not even animal.

“Welcome, my son, to the underworld of Grugagaraha. What do you seek from us?”

His mouth opened, dry and cracked. “I want power,” he whispered. “Bullies have made my life hell. I want to make them suffer.”

The voice thundered again. “Power has a price. Are you ready to pay it?”

Daramola clenched his fists. “Yes.”

Silence. Then a whisper that felt like claws on his skin.

“Then the power is yours. But be warned… every action has its consequence.”

The light disappeared.

He blinked, disoriented. His room was covered in blood. The ram was gone—shredded into invisible fragments. But when he ran out to fetch a mop and returned, the blood had vanished. No trace. No smell.

Only the silence remained. And in the corner of his room, the old book closed itself.

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