The Last Beetroot Spell
A Tale of Rules, Roots, and Real Magic
The Scrolls Must Be on the Left
The scent of charred rosemary clung to the air like incense after Mass—sacred, sharp, a little too strong. Steam hissed from the cauldron, boiling over with golden mist that curled in ribboned shapes above the fire.
"Stop!" cried the young wizard, his voice cracking through the workshop like a spell gone wrong.
The older wizard flinched mid-reach, one knotted hand frozen over a small porcelain bowl containing diced beetroot. His beard, streaked with grey ash and wild flourishes of violet dye, trembled as he turned.
The apprentice pointed at the beetroot like it was poison.
“No beetroot. It’s explicitly forbidden by Archmage Virelion the Violet in The Annotated Book of Proper Conjurations, third edition, chapter five, page eighty-two.”
The elder sighed, long and low, like a kettle resigned to boiling. “It adds richness,” he muttered.
The young man adjusted his spectacles and straightened his collar. His robes were crisp, without a speck of ash. Even his wand holster gleamed.
“Richness is not the point. The rubrics are clear. The spell scrolls must lie on the left, the ingredients on the right, sorted by magical property. Stir clockwise with your left, enchant with your right. Beetroot is—”
“I like beetroot,” the old wizard said with a shrug. “Gives the potion body. Earthiness. Like a good Lent stew.”
“It muddles the effect,” the apprentice snapped. “The rules are there for a reason.”
The older wizard raised a brow and stirred—defiantly—with his left hand. A deep aroma of spice and wet forest earth filled the room. The potion shimmered.
The apprentice grabbed his wrist mid-stir.
“You’re holding the spoon in your enchanting hand.”
“I’m left-handed.”
“You’re breaking symmetry.”
The old wizard stared at the boy, eyes narrowing like a candle flame in wind. “You think symmetry is sacred? Tell that to the mage who had to cast mid-duel with one arm broken and his staff splintered.”
The apprentice faltered. “I—I’ve studied such cases, but—”
“But nothing,” the older man said. “Rules will keep you alive… until they don’t. One day you’ll learn that. Hopefully not when it’s too late.”
Years Later: Perfect Order
The mountain wind bit through the seams of the young wizard’s tent, flapping the edge of the canvas like a chasuble in a storm.
Now no longer an apprentice, his beard neatly trimmed and his vestments pressed with enchantment spells, he surveyed his camp with quiet satisfaction. Every item had its place.
The cauldron on the right, bubbling faintly over a coal-fed flame. The scrolls on the left, sorted and sealed with the insignia of the High Magisterium. His ingredients gleamed in glass containers: sage leaves, powdered bark, dried mistletoe, ground mandrake root. All labeled. All perfect.
No beetroot.
Above, clouds tumbled like wool dropped from a careless loom. The air buzzed with something ancient and uneasy.
Then came the shrieks.
Winged creatures burst over the peaks—snorting beasts with bristled backs and jagged wings, ridden by howling orcs. Not dragons. Not anything he’d read about in the Proper Bestiary.
“By the Codex…” he whispered.
The orcs swooped in fast. He had hours—no, minutes—before they reached his camp. He turned to his cauldron.
Step one: increase the flame. He whispered the ignition charm. The fire surged.
Step two: retrieve the first scroll. Left hand. Always the left.
Step three: drop in the ingredients—sage first, then mistletoe, then—
A rock slammed into his jaw. Pain exploded in white arcs across his vision. He stumbled, and the parchment slipped from his hand.
“Damn it!”
He tried to recover, picking ingredients off the ground, but a second rock cracked against his knee. He fell. His arm struck the side of the cauldron. The copper seared his skin.
“Ouch!” he cried out, eyes watering.
He’d forgotten the cooling spell.
He chanted the words, but his hands shook. The potion bubbled violently, belching purple smoke and sparks that singed his brows.
The orcs landed with bone-rattling thuds. Their flying beasts shrieked with hunger. Spears were raised.
The wizard backed away, breath shallow, hands fumbling through parchments. Too many steps. Too many rules. He couldn’t remember whether to restart the potion or dilute it or—
He had one choice left.
He grabbed his staff, rammed it into the earth, and spoke the emergency spell.
The Archmage Appears
A violet tornado spun into the world with the hush of breath being drawn in.
From the center emerged a figure in simple robes, short above the ankles. His staff glowed with quiet menace, humming with old, forgotten power.
The orcs shrieked and staggered. The flying beasts bucked and reared. Every stone and scroll and broken potion bottle lifted from the ground—spinning in the air like they’d been caught in the breath of creation itself.
Where the Archmage stepped, the earth stilled.
He planted his staff, and the whirlwind collapsed outward with a silent pulse. Orcs and beasts were hurled through the air like leaves in a gale—screaming as they vanished behind the cliffs. Spears shattered mid-flight. The sky cleared.
Silence fell. The mountain exhaled.
Then—only then—the Archmage turned and smiled.
The young wizard gaped, jaw slack, one eyebrow still twitching from terror.
“Tea?” the Archmage asked.
With a whisper and a sweep of his arm, the scorched ground became a lush carpet. The ruined camp folded into velvet shadows. A spacious tent shimmered into place around them—lavishly appointed, dimly lit by candles that danced like friendly spirits. Two steaming cups of tea appeared between them on a polished cedar table.
“Would you like a biscuit?” Archmage Virelion the Violet added.
The Rubrics Rewritten
“Now, tell me. What went wrong?” the Archmage asked, plucking a candied hazelnut from a silver dish.
“I followed the rubrics!” the younger man cried. “To the letter. The scrolls, the stirring, the ingredients. I even—”
“No beetroot, I assume?” Virelion said.
“Of course not! That’s forbidden!”
The old wizard chuckled, deep and round like a bell.
“I forbade it,” he said, “because I hate the taste. It makes me gag. But in a pinch, it's the fastest stabilizer known to magic. Adds durability to shields. Makes potions hold together when chaos shatters everything.”
The younger wizard opened his mouth, then closed it.
“And the right-hand stirring rule?” Virelion asked, sipping his tea. “I wrote that while recovering from a burn on my left. It was practical, not mystical.”
“But… the rubrics…”
“Rubrics are scaffolding,” the master said. “Not the house itself.”
The young wizard blinked, stunned. “But all the instructions… all those sacred formulas…”
Virelion reached across the table and tapped his cup. “Tea only works if the water’s hot. The vessel matters, sure—but it’s the heat that makes the magic.”
The Final Lesson
Years passed.
Now grey-bearded, the wizard stood by a waterfall under a sky heavy with storm light. Below, the lake began to churn—ripples spreading like veins. The water snakes would arrive before dusk.
His young assistant was chopping herbs with all the fury of someone trying to impress invisible auditors.
“Master,” the boy called, “your cauldron has a dent. That’ll reduce spell efficacy by at least twenty-five percent.”
“Noted,” the old wizard said, squinting toward the lake. “More pressing—go fetch me some beetroot.”
The assistant turned, aghast. “Beetroot? But… that’s—”
“Forbidden?” the master smiled. “Only if you have time. And we don’t.”
As the lake frothed and hissed, the master reached into his pouch and pulled out a single, round root. Purple. Ugly. Full of earthy wisdom.
“Sometimes,” he said, tossing it into the brew, “salvation tastes like dirt.”
Moral of the Spell:
There are times when the rubrics save lives—and others when they bind your hands in the hour of greatest need. Wisdom is knowing the difference. And always keep a beetroot in your pocket.
Splendid! I enjoyed this story very much. The dialogue was particularly strong. I could almost hear the characters' voices! Keep up the great work, Fr. Roderick. And don't forget your beetroot!