I could not believe that Raydan, a Master of History, sat calmly among his books with his feet up as the city shook to its foundation. “Raydan!”

Trenon jerked his gaze from the depths certain he’d misheard Nurdeen. “Excuse me?” he asked.

Mirsten, Lord of the Flames, paced his Great Hall. Glowering at the entry, he twisted his staff between his hands. The gloomfell doors remained stubbornly closed. Stopping, he banged his staff and sent a boom echoing through the chamber.

Moyra glanced toward the bar as the proprietor scoffed while cleaning a glass. “It’s a fool’s errand.”

Tanadril skin prickled on her neck, and, pausing cleaning, she turned to survey the room. Pask flicked his tail angrily perching next to the tomes again.

“I am a grotesque man.” Torban sat at the table waiting for the response to his statement dropped into the council meeting. He had been saying some such variation for weeks and suspected their reactions now.

Tremen shook his head as if jarring his thoughts back into order. An order which Kernel’s simple demand had dashed. Tremen had never retreated but did before this onslaught.

Tremen tromped his way out of the sorceress’s tower. The green fields looked the same as when he had pushed his way into the tower, oblivious to the spells his presence had triggered. Or the plants where. The animals had fled.

Tremen followed the sorceress as she fled up the stairs. “Help me, please?” he cried. His voice echoed off stone.

She paused at a turning and scowled at him. “No.”

“Once there was a story,” the voice rumbled against her ear and deepest blank hair trailed over her pillow.