The doors closed with an ominous, heavy noise. Like the jaws of death were closing around him. Once again, he was trapped inside the dome of wasted hours. Xefef called this race-planning. Because even if it was never acknowledged, it was meant to set up the conditions that turn life into a competition. In reality, it meant coming up with useless ideas to force into existence. Without ever asking the ideas if they wanted to exist, or if there was even any point to them in the first place. That way they could pretend to try, fail, and declare it impossible. And all the while sorcerers were kept too busy to ask annoying questions.

Excuses and blame, that's what the morning meetings are really for, his contempt thought.

The curved stone wall of the chamber was windowless, with few candle fixtures. A drowsy experience at the best of times. Hence lately, he couldn't keep up his routine of scrutinising every idea for fault. Instead he kept his blank gaze fixed on the model of Pentakl.

As had been the custom since the first council. Sulenthvorenth, the Xefef headmaster, oversaw the council's agenda. The Dwarf always wore his three personal items. A black miner's helmet, a pair of steel capped boots, and a pickaxe on his back. Family heirlooms that were all too large. They were also impractical, except the lamp on the helmet. That had to make reading in this gloom easier.

"Dalmicir," Sulenthvorenth half-yelled.

Even though he could see who was there, the Xefef head insisted on taking attendance. However, in his sleepy little bubble Lyeasrakardsul was dead to the world.

"Dalmicir!" He smacked the ceremonial gavel against the edge of the table.

Besides being oddly short, even for a Dwarf, Sulenthvorenth was also shockingly bad tempered. Even for his magick school, where anger was the norm. And what enraged him most, was when someone wasn't paying attention to him. Half of his stocky body was covered with black beard, and it was already vibrating with rage.

The old sorcerer had always found the vibrating fuzz-ball humorous. Privately, he had nicknamed him, 'the fabulous man-beard'. Still, his fury was useful. It had served him well on his way to becoming the youngest headmaster in Empris' history, but at the moment it was having no effect.

To stave off disaster, Zhetoniss had stretched out with his symbiotic vine. It acted much as an extra limb. The ivy, attached to his body, was the epitome of Loitar magick. Covertly, it poked the old man's calf under the table.

Startled out of his bubble, Lyeasrakardsul found the other heads staring at him. Groggily, he scanned the worried faces. Noertdel was ready to crawl out of his skin. Beads of sweat ran from one chin to the next through his thin blond beard. By comparison, Zhetoniss seemed at ease and his horizontal eyes were calm. Yet, on the floor his vine was twitching. The Troll, Drik, was the only one unaffected. From his blood-red opal eyes to his granite feet, the Pedran headmaster showed nothing but stony calm.

"Do you hear that?" Since he had no idea what was going on, he changed the subject.

"There's a hum coming from somewhere?" It had annoyed him for years, but this was the first time it was useful.

"DO YOU HAVE," the Dwarf managed to take a breath, "anything to add to the agenda?"

Every word that came pressed through clenched teeth made the green flame in his lamp surge.

We may have gone too far, his inattention thought, all of sudden wide awake.

"Oh! No no, nothing to add, same old story you know, just observing and such. What, have you heard something different?" A response designed to annoy, rather than anger.

"Stop your incessant rambling! Have you not been attending this meeting every morning for more than two-hundred years? Should you not know how this works by now!"

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

The truth was he knew more than that. Like the fact that mocking, was the man-beard's release valve. Giving the Dwarf an opportunity to get the quiver out of his fuzz, would save some poor sorcling a lot of suffering later in the day.

"I will have you know it has been two-hundred and thirty-eight years since I last missed a morning meeting. Also, I chaired the committee that decided--" He was prepared to go on for a while, but as expected he was interrupted.

"Enough! We all know how you like to babble, but some of us have work to do! Since you cannot answer a simple here, I call this meeting of the council adjourned. All discussions are tabled until tomorrow!"

Ending the meeting like it was a punishment was just the thing to get his beard twitch down to background levels of rage. The Loitar head was quickest away. Since Zhetoniss had that Áettar walk, he almost floated. In his diminished state, Lyeasrakardsul admired his colleagues waist long hair. How it always wafted around him like he was walking in a stiff headwind was nothing short of a marvel. Next up was Noertdel, the Macbiar head huffed and puffed his way out of his seat. The man was out of breath from the process of standing up. He shifted the thick glasses on his nose, making sure he was heading for the right door.

The individual exits are meant to limit contact, but it's more than that, separate and unequal, that's the Xefef creed, his scepticism thought.

Remembering the something on his agenda, he stood too quickly and wrenched his back again. It had never healed properly. He asked Noertdel for something to soothe the pain, but had instead gotten a lecture, and a happiness-concoction.

Which I don't need! I'm in pain, I'm not sad!

How would you know the difference, his shrivelled emotional capacity wondered.

Hobbling away, he overheard Drik's quarry of a voice, trying to whisper to the black beard. The amount of control the Dwarf had over the Troll was worrying. On another day he would have hung around on some pretence or other, while poking his big nose into their business.

"The only reason that clump became headmaster, was because his granite was already the right colour! No need to paint him red before meetings! But at least he covers up with a loincloth. Trolls may not have literal sexes, but that is no excuse for nudity," he said crossing to the Archives.

Pondering his way through his barren office, he came into the corridor. The arched main passage was open to both levels, and the upper corridor circled a banister with a view to the lower level. Even though his office was right by the upstairs staircase. He had to go all the way to the other end of the building, to be allowed to go down. On the downstairs staircase. Not that he minded really, the place was like a giant library. A Dalmicir practitioners playground, the walls were lined with with shelves of dark wood.

However, since he was heading to the Knomes, instead of his usual attempt at strutting, he stalked along the bookcases like a sorcling out of class without permission. Exiting the main entrance, he scurried down the stairs and slipped into the shadows. The spot was his favourite for long pipe-breaks.

"Best of all, since I took over we can smoke inside too, so most don't bother coming outside." He put away the calabash pipe that had appeared in his hand.

Doing magick even right outside the college wasn't allowed. Nonetheless, he changed the colour of his robe from dark purple to the forest-green of the Loitar school. At the last moment he remembered to remove his hat. Instead, lifting the hood on the robe. A natural look preferred by many from that school.

As quietly as he could, so quite loud, he walked to the closest intersection of the cobbled main street. He looked both ways for Troll patrols, or 'The Rocks' as they were called behind their red-painted backs. Seeing no one, he glanced longingly at the bricked up Dalmicir gate. Then went the other way, towards the red.

Passing the great garden, he stopped and pretended to study the stupid plants. The tree-fondler's recreational area was full of green, smelly things. The gardens looked peaceful from the outside, but he avoided getting too close to the greenhouses and the sentient jungle. Somewhere in there, they kept the abominations. Failed experiments. In his green robes, no one cared that he was hanging around the edge of the gardens. And he took his time waiting for a crowd, less chance of being spotted passing through the city-wall.

"Wall," a quiet 'pfft' passed his lips. "Bloody stupid Pedran built it with the battlements facing in-wards, and those gates wouldn't protect against anything but magick!"

Never mind the wall! We'll die of shame if we're caught going to see the Knomes, his inner sorcerer thought. They will start calling us Lyeasrakardsul the Knome abuser!

A group of servants pulling heavy carts came by, and he took his chance and followed. But with the first step under the high vaulted gate, a strong feeling of being watched sent him speed-walking all the way back to the archives.

You're a coward! The bully in him thought.

"I tried, alright? That will have to count as my something for today."