Charcoal Doom

Gilbrant nearly walked out of the dining hall the moment he entered. Nose crinkling, he managed to make himself stay. The air reeked, the scent of burnt toast making him paranoid. Clearing his throat, he strode forward and seated himself at an empty end of the table.

The area did not remain empty long. Durrin plopped down opposite him, tossing his beard over his shoulder as he set a covered plate on the table. “I hear you had an eventful morning.”

Fork midway from plate to his mouth, Gilbert glowered at Durrin. His question’s tone had been light as if inquiring after the latest fashion in mage lights. Periwinkle, if Gilbert recalled right.

Shaking his head, he banished the thought. Mage lights were the least of his concern. What Durrin hinted at was pressing. And if he’d asked, word his Marrinda’s vision had spread.

“Eventful is a word for it.” He spoke with deliberate coldness and forced himself to bite the eggs. They’d grown cold hanging in midair. At least Gilbrant hoped it hadn’t been a bit of stray magic chilling them to match his voice.

Durrin shrugged. “I meant no harm.” Casually, he reached down and plucked the cover from his plate.

The smell and sight struck Gilbrant simultaneously. A mountain of overcooked, nearly charcoal toast sat on Durrin’s plate.

Shoving back from the table, Gilbrant fled from the room. Marrinda had prophesied burnt toast would be his doom, but Durrin would not be the harbinger.