The torn scrap of parchment shuddered violently against the goblet stem that anchored it to the table. The wine in the goblet sloshed with the force of the energy-wind that burst from the center of the wide chamber. The wind roared with the sound of ten-thousand warriors charging to battle.
Mage Tyllon leapt up the stairs toward the Archmage’s chambers. He kept to the inner stone wall of the curving staircase, and took the steps two at a time to speed his progress. His thighs and lungs burned when he reached the chamber door at the top of the tower stairs. He raised his fist to pummel on the wooden slab of the door.
“Archmage Elrik, are you injured?” his fist struck the wood of the door as he called out, and the solid oak swung wide, its hinges oiled and smooth.
Tyllon looked around his Master’s chamber, blinking.
It was empty.
The Archmage was no where to be seen. His workbench was likewise missing. The thick fur rug the Archmage stood upon when working at his bench. His implements and divinations. His collected works of notes and years of experiments. Elrik’s pet falcon had not even left behind a spare feather.
Worse yet, what the Archmage had been working on was also gone: the armour. The armour prophesied to choose its warrior. The warrior, Bezbran’s only hope of escaping annihilation at the hands of the Zuriv.
Tyllon almost wept. Instead, he turned in a slow circle, looking for any sign that this sudden departure had been… intentional. The only furniture that remained in the workshop was a tiny table. Upon which rested a spilled goblet of wine, and a wine-soaked bit of parchment. Mage Tyllon rushed forward. The Archmage’s clean script was clearly visible through the wine.