― ᛟ ―
Two moon-turns had passed.
Far to the west, upon the island of Horunguth, in the Tower of Mages, Master Drobal stood among his adepts.
They had gathered to speak of disturbances they could no longer dismiss — harbingers each of them had felt.
At his side stood Raynarus and Elvoran — two young magi he had taken in after the battle at Ib’Agier, twenty years before. They said nothing as they stared from the tall windows, across the broad and glittering sea.
Then Master Drobal began to speak, his voice measured, his brow drawn.
“Something dark hangs in the air,” he said. “Some nights past, I had a vision — one I cannot cast aside as mere dream. I saw shadows rising — not from this world. A voice called to me, cold and old and without mercy.”
He turned slowly from the window.
“It said: Drobal … master of secrets. You are clever — cleverer than most. But even clever men misjudge what they do not understand. Your power wanes before mine. I am Xaroth — breath of annihilation, blade that sunders all order. Your world shall burn.”
His voice faded. He moved to the center table and sat.
“I saw fire — rising through blackened rifts in the earth. Cities collapsing into the depths, nothing left but char and ruin. Shadows moved across the land — broken shapes, crying without voices. And over all of it, a blood-red sky. The vision swelled — and I saw hosts beyond counting, marching beneath Xaroth’s banner, and a throne of skulls rising from a gulf of fire.”
Silence settled. He stroked his beard once, then folded his hands.
“I do not know how to name what I saw,” he said at last. “But something is wrong.”