Dranalin tapped one hand against the other as she paced. In her mind, she heard the cries of the crowd beyond the keep. She knew the sound could not breach the walls, but she remembered from when she had hauled Darkel, Lord of the Frost, into the keep.

Meerthyn stood before her mentor’s desk watching the two jars laid upon it. One held his light. The other hers.

“If a fence could talk, this one would sound confused.” Beorrice tapped the wooden planks with his cane and quirked his eyebrow at me.

Kerina sat at her bench glowering as the Elder and his favored apprentice, Cardona, gushed over her latest experiment. Her vial glowed with the vibrance Kerina had yet to match.

Tradeen walked into the chamber to find Master Veran muttering, and wringing his hands and eased the door closed. She didn’t need speculation covering their discovery.

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.