“Life is too long to pretend to like the people you work with.”

-Lyeasrakardsul, headmaster of Dalmicir magick, member of the council of sorcerers, master of the cult of some, keeper of the archives, chronicler of visions, and chastiser of sorclings.

Lyeasrakardsul was back on top, in his penthouse apartment. Even so, it felt like the bottom of a dark well of tired. It had been months since that night when he first saw stars being snuffed out by the Darkness of his nightmares. Since then — in his own, not so humble opinion — he had rather skilfully done nothing.

In particular, he hadn't asked the Knomes for help. Nor had he been thinking about it, and certainly not obsessing. Still, doing nothing was turning into more work than the dreaded something. Appearing busy was tricky at the best of times. But when you were the one watching yourself, it was next level avoidance. Insomnia and the constant pressure of procrastination was breaking even his pigheaded will. Getting up to put away his chamberpot, he was left staring at his own blank eyes in the small Knome-mirror.

We have to do something, his exhaustion thought.

"Even if it's asking Knomes for help?" One of his unruly eyebrows lifted.

"Don't you look at me like that! The council has done nothing but business as usual for two-thousand years!"

Well, you've been a sorcerer almost half that time? His guilt countered his excuse.

"But doing things goes against everything that Dalmicir stands for!"

The words felt like someone else's, but they were coming out of his tobacco-stained beard. Even with many hours spent stumbling about the leaky decks of his pirate-ship memory-palace. He still had no clear evidence of anything.

The only good thing he could say was that at least there wasn't any evidence that some god was involved. Refusing to believe was a big part of reverse-agnosticism, and he refused to even consider that his strings were being pulled by the divine. If there was one core concept that he had never grasped. It was that just because he thought he was right, it wasn't necessarily true.

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Grabbing his purple, pointy hat he hesitantly stormed off to the morning meeting. The daily nuisance that had to be endured, before he could get busy with the days nothing.

But today we are doing a something, if anyone can help us prove the stars are fading, it's the Knomes, his hope thought, because it was long past hoping that he could get another other magick school to take care of his problem.

"The critters do love proving things."

Stopping at a vertical slit of a window on the tenth level of the tower. His head boobed up and down around it, searching for a view to see if there were any guards near the Pedran gate. Three of the five gates had been bricked up, including his own school's purple. He would not risk going through the black gate, and that only left the red.

If we succeed in sneaking off, we should go for a dip, his leisure thought with uncharacteristic excitement.

Once a year he snuck out to enjoy one of the extra bubbly pools in the sea of endless hot-springs. If his leisure had its way, he would have soaked every day. Even with some sneaky self-motivation, reluctance held back his storming. Still, he struggled down the steep, winding staircase that ran along the inside of the round tower. He took the same path as every day, heading to the decagon shaped council building at the centre of Pentakl. Going from his tower, through the archives, and crossing the walkway from the office balcony.

Since the nightmares started, he found it difficult to concentrate. The stuffy atmosphere inside the dome was no help, neither were the inane matters on the council's agenda. It wasn't a great situation for someone who wanted to pay attention, or was just trying to stay awake.

He crossed the walkway onto the terrace surrounding the dome. From here, each council member had their own door into the chamber. The black iron entrances hadn't been in the original design. They had been put in later, to avoid conflict. Sorcerers do not mature, they only get pettier with age, and the headmasters weren't above stepping on each other's robes. An unforgivable provocation. Over the centuries it had started a number of slap fights. On the rest of the continent, any group of two or more sorcerers was still remembered as a quarrel.

A blood red carpet led from the door to his purple stone-seat. It was one of five throne-looking seats surrounding a dark, round table.

If someone woke in the council chamber, they would expect to be sacrificed in some occult fashion, his cynicism thought.

Carved into the stone table was a perfect three-dimensional miniature of Pentakl. He was suspicious of this new furniture. It had been ordered by Sulenthvorenth fifteen years ago.

A sorcerer that is not suspicious of other sorcerers, is no sorcerer at all! The mantra of his old master echoed in his head.