The curse of mediocrity: after he had shown indications of Talent, they had sent him to skolomans; but after many trials, the judgment was unbearable – some power, a candle flame perhaps, but never more than that – even with much study. One day he might make an acceptable factotum; worthy, at least, of being called 'a mage', although never a wizard.

Faced with the choice of having passing knowledge of many things or deeper understanding of very few, he decided he would become master of a single spell. One. Just one.
But, indeed be its uncomparable, unchallenged master.

The choice of which spell was a matter of practicality. He had no intention of being a penniless scholar who would very occasionally be asked about an obscure magical incantation of great mystical value. He would master something rare and desirable, in demand at considerable price.

And he found just the thing: an ancient spell, from the dark days of magic. The final spell of the most tragic and romantic of sorcerors. It was a despised thing, even if it had been created out of love; absolutely taboo for the establishment of graybearded wizards and hand-wringing sages who regulated magic. He wiped his arse on the lot of them: mastery of his one spell had made him rich and garnered a certain respect from people he viewed as shrewd and powerful – yes, and even poorly-veiled fear from others he did not.

It took its toll. He needed the talismans and amulets, the myriad small gems each inscribed with a minor booster spell, cascading into a powerful surge when triggered; the Staff, bought at a kingly ransom, to keep him focused; the obsidian ring which confused any minor mystical entity looking to feed on spillover energy; the thauma-circuitry lining his cloak, safely conducting the power he garnered; the garish-looking hat which dispelled the magical noise constantly streaming in, attracted by the potential of the incantation; the girdle bearing the sigil to maintain his physical integrity against the backlash of the casting; and the elixirs and potions he had to take daily to keep his magical senses honed. It was worth it. It was worth it, Nobody could or would do what he did daily.

And always successfully. He had never failed, all these years, not even if he had cast it several times a day.
He had made a promise to himself, long ago: should he ever fail, even once... there was the vial with its patient contents, the escape from the scorn he would not be able to bear and which was warded off only by complete success every time.

It was a life. It was his life.