Demane rode Before the fall if the Traviane Empire. He knew he should stop. He knew he should rest his horse. Allow his men reprieve. They had travelled hard through the night fleeing from the city toward the King’s Sepulcher. He knew he should offer them a reprieve, but he knew he could not either. For the fall of the Traviane Empire was manifest within the armies of Kaleen hard on his heels. Glancing back, he could see the roiling line of once men close behind.

“I called to order the nine thousandth, fifty-fourth meeting of the Magical Collegium.” The gavel wrapped against the table emphasizing the High Seat’s ringing in meeting. Esmeraldan winced as the gravel struck, though. She much preferred it when a warlock did not fill the high seat. They never understood the intricacies of the gavel, or how left unshielded the surge its enchantments could affect those in the room. Enchantments which were meant to keep malicious users out of the collegium. Nobody wanted a repeat of the lich incident of eight hundred and nine, but they also didn’t need to start meetings with headaches from the gavel being used incorrectly.

Albin ran chased by the clatter of hooves and the baying of far hounds. They were too close now. He thought he would have lost the chasers a week ago. He thought they would have given up on hunting him. He was no one. Nothing. Certainly, the moldy loaf of bread shouldn’t have brought this attention to him. Glancing back. He looked over the dry sands hardened into a crust, cut through with ravines, and saw them on the rise behind. Too close indeed.

“Es’loann,” Valeen breathed. Her eyes widened as she took in the spires rising into the sky in the center of the valley below. Myth had claimed that the city didn’t exist. The city of towers. Three to be exact Valeen saw. Three blue, cobalt towers sparkling in the sun. The castle of dreams.

Laughter broke through the night. Not the high pitch of cackling. No, the sound echoed madness unleashed. Clive stretched out his limbs. “This feels so good.” He groaned. Bits of dirt, grass, and dying leaves sprinkled from his still not completely solidified body to litter the ground about him.

“What kind of lame song is that?” a voice echoed behind me. I paused in the song and glanced over my shoulder. Dranon had been nothing but argumentative since we’d arrived at the ruins. Now he stood with arms tightly crossed and with his lip jutted out as if about to through a fit. Not something I could discount from experience.

Nayleen rammed her hands against the shelf to abruptly stop herself at the bookshelf. Running her hands over book spines, she pushed them this way and that trying to locate one impossible to find tome. “Where is it?” She bit her lip. The tome wasn’t in this case. Or worse, remained hidden from her. Shoving the thought away from her, Nayleen whipped about, turning toward another of the shelves she rushed to it. The shelf proved equally disappointing.

Moments after the off-key melody stopped echoing within the house, the door creaked slowly open. The sound reminded Jameson of a crypt opening. Through a narrow slit a face peered out at him. A man, a widower Jameson knew, whose skin appeared a tepid green with thick folds of skin dangling. Looking up, Jameson didn’t smile nor did the man open the door further.