Meet the Characters
Bob: Right then. You’ve wandered into the wrong section, haven’t you? This is where they keep the character descriptions, and–
A series of polite but firm chitters rained down from the shelf above, and Bob’s ears flattened.
Bob: Fine, I’ll do it. The squirrels want me to tell you about the characters. The squirrels.
He glared up at the top shelf.
Bob: As if they’ve ever strung two coherent thoughts together.
And yes, he was talking about actual squirrels. A whole row of them sat perched up there, smug in their tiny green waistcoats, staring down with the sort of disappointment usually reserved for head teachers.
Bob held his ground. He would not be intimidated by rodents, no matter how well-dressed.
One of them tapped a miniature clipboard—an impatient little sound.
Bob: Sigh… Fine. Let’s get this over with. My nap isn’t going to nap itself.
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Owen. Thirteen, and looks like a strong gust of wind might send him cartwheeling. He’s been drifting about in a daze since I’ve known him. ‘Nightmares,’ he calls them. Fire, shadows, and some spooky figure watching from the flames. Of course, nobody told him what was really going on, did they? Not even his two minders. So he just shuffles about, knackered, while the other kids at school think he’s a bit barmy.
He’s cleverer than he lets on, mind you. Sees things that don’t quite fit. Sees those two pulling worried faces behind his back. Trusting, though. Far too trusting, especially with that father of his, who pays about as much attention as a goldfish.
Then he touches the Orb and everything cracks open. Suddenly the boy who could barely stay awake in maths is walking between worlds and chatting with spirits. Bit overwhelming, I’d imagine. Bit terrifying. He’s got power he doesn’t understand, enemies who want to cage him or claim him, and a rescue to mount with about as much training as a newborn kitten.
We’ll see if he’s got the guts for it.
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Robyn Aldercroft is what happens when you give a firecracker opposable thumbs and a cricket bat.
She’s the loud one—the ginger kid with the asymmetrical haircut and exactly two volumes: asleep, and shouting. Her combat air-runes are genuinely impressive, quick and devastating when they connect. It’s the only reason I haven’t simply sat on her until she learns patience. But she spoils all that lovely, precise magic by waving around that ghastly cricket bat.
All that swagger is just for show, of course. You can see it in the way she grips that ridiculous bat a little too tightly when she thinks no one is looking. She’s terrified she isn’t strong enough to protect the boy. I’ve seen that particular brand of foolishness before.
She dresses as if she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, favours oversized hoodies and boots that clang like dustbins on the Runegrove floors, and has absolutely no concept of an indoor voice. I find her exhausting. Against my better judgment, I also find her… tolerable.
I’d want her on my side in a fight, no question. But I wouldn’t trust her with a secret for a second. Good thing, too—she’s already got more than enough of her own.
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Hadwi Aldercroft is the quiet one, which means he’s either plotting or worrying. Usually both.
He’s the other ginger twin, the one with the longer hair and that knitted beanie. All gangly limbs and careful movements, the complete opposite of his sister. He drifts about, watching everything with those cautious eyes, fingers always tapping silent rhythms against his leg as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle only he can see.
His magic isn’t flashy like his sister’s. He toots on that ridiculous flute, and suddenly roots snake out of the ground to trip you up, or a sound buzzes in your ear so you can’t think straight. Clever, I’ll give him that. A shame he wastes it on a glorified whistle. Still, he’s never without it.
You can see the weight on his shoulders. Always hesitating, picking his words like he’s afraid one might explode. He tries to act clever, correcting everyone, but it’s just nerves. He protects Owen by thinking, not by swinging a cricket bat. And the secret they’re keeping from the boy? It stinks of guilt, and it’s stronger on him. I can smell it a mile off.
He dresses like he got into a fight with a jumble sale and lost. All muddy colours and odd little patterns, with mismatched socks poking out of his boots. He’s quieter than Robyn, but just as frustrating when his mind wanders off.
I’d trust him to plan an escape. I’d trust him to overthink a simple door.
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Viktor Ravasz is a proper fanatic, but he hides it under a fancy suit. I find that deeply, deeply annoying.
He’s tall and tries too hard to look scary, with a bald head covered in flame tattoos that move around. Creepy. His eyes are a pale, watery blue that flash when he’s cross—which is most of the time, though he pretends he’s all calm and collected. He wears fancy black suits and a coat with fussy little runes stitched on it. He moves with this slow, spooky grace, a mix of training and magic. He thinks he’s frightening. And well, he’s not wrong about that.
He talks like he’s on a stage, using big words and quoting history to make himself sound clever. One minute he’s all charm, the next he’s cold as a fish. He makes these dark jokes that are meant to catch you off guard, which is just a cheap trick. And if you dare argue, his voice gets quiet and sharp, and you can hear the threat behind the polite words.
The most boring thing about him is how sure he is that he’s right. He drones on about Merlin’s spell being ‘oppression’ and how magic needs to be ‘free’—which is just his excuse for wanting to cause chaos. It’s all a big act. The truth is, he’s got a grudge. Something nasty happened to him and his family when he was a boy, and now he’s convinced that holding back magic is worse than letting it run wild.
He’s a master manipulator, that one. He finds out what you want most—to fit in, to feel important—and twists it with lies until you’re tied in knots. And if that doesn’t work, he just uses his spooky shadow magic to mess with your head. He’d rather break your spirit than your bones because he thinks it makes him clever. I call it pretentious. If you’re going to be a villain, at least get on with it. All the drama is exhausting.He loses his temper sometimes, and that’s when he makes mistakes. He also doesn’t get why people are loyal to each other. He thinks everyone’s only out for themselves, so when someone acts out of friendship or love, it completely baffles him. The numpty.
So, what’s the verdict? He’s a fanatic, a trickster, and far too clever for his own good. He knows his stuff when it comes to forbidden magic, I’ll give him that. But I wouldn’t trust him to pour milk in a saucer, let alone be near anyone with a brain they want to keep.
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The father. An archaeologist, which is just a fancy way of saying he prefers dusty old rocks to his own kid. He’s not cruel, mind. Just… not really there. Ever since the fire that took his wife and nearly got Owen, he’s been hiding in the past. Can’t seem to figure out how to talk to the boy unless there’s a ruin involved.
He tries, I’ll give him that. A clumsy word here, a trip to some forbidden hole in the ground there. Thought he was doing a brilliant bit of fathering, bringing Owen to that dig site. All connection and adventure. Didn’t have a clue he was serving the lad up on a platter for that snake Viktor, poor sod.
Maybe he knew more than he let on, maybe not. Hard to say with humans who’d rather stare at a wall than face what’s right in front of them. Point is, Viktor snatched him, and that forced Owen to grow up ten years overnight. He’s not a baddie, just a sad case who made a right mess of things and paid the price.
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Lucia is a problem.
Dark wavy hair, cat-eye glasses that are always slipping down her nose like she’s about to tell you off—and she usually is, especially me. She dresses like a burst of sunshine that’s decided to wear clothes: bright yellow tops, shorts with more rips than fabric, and so many colours it hurts my eyes. Then there are the tattoos, swirling black patterns all over her skin like a secret map she’ll never give you the directions for.
She’s meant to be Councilor Okafor’s star pupil, but she just turned up five years ago with that ridiculous coat that thinks it’s alive and never left. I’ve seen her tie the entire Council in knots with a single question and a sweet smile. She can twist a grown mage’s words around so fast they end up arguing with themselves. It’s infuriating.
What really gets my fur up is how she watches Owen. The baffled look she tries to hide, the way she corrects his magic before he’s even made a mistake, the hovering she pretends is just part of the lesson. She thinks she’s being subtle. She’s not. I know the smell of a big, complicated secret, and I don’t like secrets taking up space in my tree.
She’s bold, she’s trouble, and for some reason, people seem to like it. I’d trust her to look after our most secret books. I wouldn’t trust her not to cause a scene at a tea party.
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Bob is magnificent, underappreciated, and perpetually surrounded by idiots.
I’m a big, round ginger cat. My eyes are amber, and they glow with magic when I can actually be bothered. My fur’s a bit of a mess, but it hides a few scars from my… adventures. And yes, I move slowly. It’s not because I’m old, it’s because I’m saving my energy for important things. I can be quick when I have to be. Which is almost never.
You’ll usually find me draped over important papers or magical trinkets. It’s not laziness, it’s tactics. I’m guarding them. I’ve got this little collar with runes on it that gives my magic a bit of a boost, but don’t tell anyone. I’d rather they thought my illusions were just down to me being brilliant.
My speciality? Sarcasm. I say things that are sharp, witty, and perfectly timed to knock show-offs down a peg. Someone has to do it. When I’m feeling extra dramatic, I talk about myself in the third person. Because Bob is worth it. And the whole lazy, silly cat thing? It’s an act. All of it. When I clean my paws in the middle of a conversation, it’s my polite way of saying, ‘You’re boring me. Go away now.’
My skills? I’m a genius with illusions. I know everything there is to know about magical history, especially that whole Merlin fiasco. As for Owen, I suppose I’m his teacher. I make sarcastic remarks about his daft choices, but secretly I’m nudging him in the right direction. It’s exhausting. Oh, and I’m on the Runegrove Council, not that you’d notice. All this pretending to be lazy while actually paying attention is tiring. It’s a wonder I don’t sleep more.
Look, I’ve seen it all, and frankly, I’m tired. But someone has to keep these kids and this whole tree from falling apart, and it might as well be me. Just don’t expect me to look happy about it. And yes, my laziness is famous. But when things get properly dicey, I get it done. Why? Because I’m magnificent.
Underappreciated. Magnificent. Bob.
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Sunny is ancient, unpredictable, and annoying in that special way only creatures with too much time on their paws can be.
In her fox form, she’s enormous—think of a draft horse made of moonlight and you’re halfway there. Her nine tails are always fanning about, just to show off. Her fur glows with its own light, and she’s got these dramatic red markings that I’m fairly certain mean ‘Danger.’ And the eyes… golden, big as dinner plates, and they watch you with the sort of patience that says, ‘I’ve got nothing better to do for the next thousand years.’
When she pretends to be human, she’s one of those people who stop you in your tracks. She looks young, but her eyes tell you she’s seen more than you could imagine. White hair up in a rediculous bun with red streaks, some fancy gold thing holding it back, posh silk robes. But you can’t miss the nine tails swishing about, or the pointy fox ears that twitch at every sound. Her golden eyes glint like a hunter’s, and her nails are painted the colour of blood. Not suspicious at all.
Her voice is the worst part. She does this little ‘heh-heh-heh’ laugh that’s half sweet little girl, half hungry wolf, and it makes my fur stand right up. She talks in riddles, using dusty old words one minute and then some ridiculous slang the next. Always calling Owen ‘little Dreamwalker’ or ‘star-touched’ with a smile that doesn’t mean a thing.
She was there for the big Merlin-Bael bust-up, saw it all with her own eyes. She knows everything—and I mean everything. The illusions she cooks up in the Dreamworld? You’d never know they weren’t real. And her foxfire can toast a Specter before it knows what’s hit it.
She’s old, sly, and far too clever. I’d trust her to tell me what happened a thousand years ago. But her kind of ‘help’? It always comes with claws.
