Mage Consul Geor sighed with relief in Harpyn’s absence. He did not mind the young mage so much, but Harpyn’s ambitiousness could be rather tiring. More importantly, he stuck to Geor like a shadow and made it nearly impossible for the Mage Consul to take care of important matters in secrecy.
As such, Geor had taken to sending Harpyn out on errands, often adding an odd item or two to the list to keep him away a little while longer. On this occasion, though, he really did need Harpyn to gather the necessary ingredients for his spells. He’d used the last of his powered ivory and they were running perilously low on chimera teeth.
The magic had been seeping through the firmament more and more frequently of late. Before, Geor was able to seal the leaks for years at a time, keeping the ancient magic buried away. It was a task he had assigned himself after the long war of the seven citadels. Now, it seemed that the firmament was intent on ripping itself to shreds, and each new tear released another stream of potent magic that had to be contained. Many long generations had passed since magic flowed freely in Andrysfal, and Geor was certain that it should stay that way. Free magic was a threat to the entire world.
As it was, Geor had moved the Tower of Open Consciousness into the forest outside of Torg Uyen and had spent months trying to hold the magic at bay. But with every passing day, he could hear the ancient artifacts locked in his vault growing stronger. They rattled and moaned, filling his head with their cries and pleas to be set free. It had become unbearable, and he feared if he didn’t seal the leak soon, the artifacts would overpower him.
Once, he had thought that training young mages would strengthen the firmament. If only he could find someone he trusted. Unfortunately, Harpyn was not that person. Harpyn was too naive, too power-hungry by half, and still didn’t have a firm grasp on the fundamentals of wizardry.
Another wave of protests rose from the vault concealed in the wall of the tower’s spiral staircase. Geor’s jaw clenched and his teeth ground together painfully as he leaned on the wall to steady himself. Gathering his strength, he descended the steps toward the hidden door, repeating a warding spell over and over as the intensity of the artifact’s cries grew louder in his head. With each step, the pressure in his head grew until he thought his skull might split open. But when he laid his hand against the flat stone to reveal the vault’s door, all of the voices fell silent at once. It was as if they were waiting to pounce.
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With a weary sigh, Geor murmured the word to unlock the door and stepped inside. To his surprise, the room remained quiet. Nothing came whizzing past his head as had happened before, and none of the artifacts rose up to greet him. Instantly suspicious, he hesitated close to the door, leaving it cracked behind him just in case he needed to make a hasty retreat.
After several long seconds, he frowned and picked up his foot to take another step into the room. The silence held. Gingerly, he set his foot down and let go of the door behind him, holding his breath and scanning the room for any sign of movement.
When nothing happened, he let his breath out in a low whistle and straightened himself up, feeling rather silly for being so cautious. After all, he was the most powerful wizard in all of Andrysfal. What did he have to worry about?
No sooner had that thought crossed his mind then he felt something snaking around his ankle. Icy dread swept over him in an instant as his eyes landed on the tail of Sayara’s whip. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed it missing from its hook on the wall, and now its long leathery tail was wrapped tight around his ankles.
He managed only a strangled yelp of protest before the whip snapped tight and yanked his legs sideways, sending him sprawling to the floor. His head hit the wooden planks with a thud and his teeth clacked together hard. As he looked up at the weapon rack, he caught a glimpse off the tip of Tayun’s sword as it teetered dangerously toward him. Thinking quickly, Geor rolled to his side, just avoiding being impaled by the thing.
However, the whip seemed to have something else in mind, dragging his heels up and up until he was hanging upside down in the vault and his vision began to swim.
“The world is not ready!” he howled, fighting to keep his consciousness. “The world cannot handle another war like the last one!”
If the ancients could hear him through the firmament, they didn’t seem to care much about the world. Geor hung there until all the blood rushed to his head and he was beginning to see things. As his vision grew dim and fuzzy, a golden face appeared in front of him. It had sharp teeth and cruel eyes, and he knew instantly that it was one of Eliera’s harpies. When it opened its mouth, he braced himself for its song, but was instead met with a violent shriek that ripped at his mind and left him in complete darkness.