The price of magic

He made it from straw gathered from the fallen leaves of an ancient tree, and sweat taken from the towel of the man who had lied to him.

A scar on his face from a childhood fight scared people away, but he had learned kindness from his grandmother—just as he had learned magic from her.

On a new moon, a drop of blood fell onto the doll, soaking into the water where the towel had been left. It was dried, then placed outside until the next new moon.

Then the pricks and pains began. He had never used this kind of magic before, but the lie felt deserving. Nothing drastic—just enough pain to amuse him.

Until every pain inflicted on the doll returned to the wizard, doubled.

Magic always demanded a price. Each prick took its toll, beginning with the nails. Within a week, they fell off. Then came the hair.

And every week, the pain doubled again, rebounding onto the wizard, until he destroyed the doll and swore never to use that spell again.