Somewhere in Oxfordshire, on a warm, sunny day, two teenage boys of about thirteen sat near a lake.
One of the boy's was in a wheelchair, his name was Nathaniel. Nathaniel had his eyes on a bird that was perched in a nearby tree.
It was a dove, a turtle dove, to be precise.
Nathaniel knew the other boy wouldn't care much, Ricky Dagworth didn't particularly care for birds, despite his best friend's best attempts to convince him that birds were incredibly fun, and interesting.
Nathaniel looked away.
Ricky looked to be too absorbed in a copy of charms of defense and deterrence that he'd gotten from Felicitania Tugwood. Ricky was much better than Nathaniel when it came to defensive charms, but maybe that made them the perfect team, someone who could be on defense, while Nathaniel hexed their opponents…
Nathaniel's thoughts trailed off. He fiddled with the signet ring on his finger, engraved on it was his family crest, and motto, "jeter un sort rapidement, viser juste."
Unbeknownst to Nathaniel, the dove had flown out of the tree.
