For days, Geor ignored Harpyn as he moved about the uppermost room of their tower. Geor was so preoccupied with his own mumblings, he didn’t even seem to mind that Harpyn had borrowed a few more books and spent hours poring over them in the relative privacy of his room. Every once in a while, he had the good sense to emerge from his reading and check on the Mage Consul, but whenever the old man saw him, he merely waved his apprentice away.

By the fourth day, Harpyn was actually beginning to grow concerned about his mentor. Geor had hardly eaten or slept since they returned from the market. Over and over, Harpyn heard tiny explosions followed by mumbled curses as Geor worked feverishly over a table full of vials. When Harpyn offered his help, Geor only narrowed his eyes at him. When Harpyn asked questions, Geor grumbled. The old man didn’t even bother assigning Harpyn to do chores, which was more than a little out of character.

Nevertheless, Harpyn contented himself with his readings. He had found a single reference to Ashamsikunu in a volume of historical records, but he discovered even more fascinating stories of the legendary warriors of the seven citadels. His eyes grew wider and wider with disbelief as he read of their marvelous feats and their glorious weapons. He wondered at what it might be like to have such awesome power, to be heralded as a savior.

When he fell asleep, the dusty old volumes open in his lap, he dreamed of having this power. He dreamed he could conjure fire, and speak to the ancients. And more than anything, he dreamed that he could walk through Torg Uyen, or even the capital, and people would step out of his way, clearing a path for him out of respect. He imagined himself marching right up to the king’s side, a most trusted advisor.

The sun rose, dashing Harpyn’s dreams and leaving him to face the mortal world with only the tiniest fragment of magic at his call.

“No more,” he promised himself, pulling on his robe and standing up straight to inspect his visage in the mirror. “Today, I am going to tell Geor that I’m ready to learn real magic. I’m tired of child’s play. I’ve waited long enough.”

Throwing his shoulders back and keeping his chin up, he exited his room and marched out to Geor’s workspace. He was not surprised to see the old man bent over the table, peering closely at something in a bowl.

Geor stiffened at Harpyn’s approach, but did not raise his head.

“What is it, boy? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Harpyn hesitated for only a moment before clearing his throat and mustering his courage. “I am here to help,” he announced in what he hoped was a confident tone.

Geor sniffed, or perhaps it was a cough. Harpyn couldn’t tell with the man’s face down in the bowl. “You’re no help to me at the moment. I’m sure the stairs could stand a sweeping or—”

“I am not here to do your chores. I am here to learn how to wield magic. You’ve made me wait long enough.”

At this, Geor really did straighten, his head swiveling slowly until his dark eyes were boring into Harpyn’s. The Mage Consul’s mustache trembled with rage as he smacked his lips together, preparing for what was sure to be one of his angry outbursts.

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Harpyn stared back, trying not to flinch away from Geor’s fury. He wasn’t going to let himself be cowed this time. If the stories about the ancients were true, he had to have courage to seize his destiny, and that was exactly what he meant to do.

But before Geor could launch into a proper tirade, Harpyn became faintly aware of a strange noise outside the tower. It started as a low hum, like a swarm of angry bees filling the air, but with each passing second, it grew bigger and louder until the assortment of glass vials on the table were vibrating and tinkling together. One by one, they vibrated their way to the edge of the table, tumbling to the floor and shattering.

Geor gasped in horror, leaping back a little too slowly as a blaze of blue flame puffed up from the floor, catching the hem of his robe on fire. With a word and a wave of his hand, he extinguished the flame, but already the noise had grown greater and more vials were hitting the ground, mixing their contents into ever more dangerous concoctions.

Confused, Harpyn darted to the nearest window, leaning out and looking all around for the source of the sound. All around them, the magic forest that concealed their location was quivering and the beasts that called it home were protesting with squawks and roars. But it was the blindingly bright orb in the sky that sucked all the breath out of Harpyn’s lungs and left him trembling.

Whirling around, he raced back to Geor’s side, grabbing the old man by the arm.

“We have to get out of here! Quick!”

Geor swatted at him irritably. “What’s this all about? We’re not going anywhere. This tower is protected by magic!”

Harpyn turned, facing the old man with wide eyes. “Can your magic protect us from the sun itself?”

Geor’s mouth fell open and he made a strange sound before clapping his lips shut and shaking his head. “The sun? What in the name of the ancients are you talking about, boy?”

“The sun! It’s falling! It’s coming right towards us.”

Geor pulled his arm free of Harpyn’s grasp and made to turn back toward the center of the room where the vials had erupted into a spray of colorful flames and odiferous plumes of gas.

“Impossible,” he announced, shuffling two steps toward the table before the tower itself began shaking beneath their feet, throwing him to the ground.

Cursing to himself, Harpyn hurried over, hoisting the old man upright and dragging him toward the stairs. “We have to go!”

This time, Geor did not argue.

As they made their way down the stairs, sticking close to the wall to avoid tumbling down the spiral steps, Harpyn stopped when he caught sight of the vault door. It remained closed, but it appeared to be vibrating in its frame, golden light seeping out around the edges with every bump and crack. Inside, he could hear the unmistakable screech of some captive creature, desperate to be freed.

“GO!” Geor said, shoving Harpyn past the door and casting a worried glance back at the door.

They had never spoken of the attack in the vault, and now, Harpyn might never get the answers he sought. Whatever was in there, it knew what was coming, and it wasn’t happy.

By the time they reached the bottom step, a shower of stone and splintered wood was falling all around them. Together, they pushed into the storage room and Harpyn slammed the door. Even in here the light from the falling star was blindingly bright through the tiny window. It illuminated every disturbed dust mote as they floated through the air, and it filled the tight space with terrible heat as it grew closer.

Outside the door, the tower gave a mighty groan and then there was a crash. Harpyn held his breath, waiting for certain doom. But despite the tremors beneath their feet and the roar of the sun, Geor lifted a hand over his head and began to recite in the ancient language. Harpyn watched, listening, trying to commit each syllable to memory. Hopeless, he raised his own hand, closing his eyes so he could focus on repeating the spell the same way Geor did.

And then there was a crash so deafening, it seemed to tear through the earth itself, throwing Harpyn and Geor against the wall before the wall itself collapsed behind them and everything went dark.