20th of Uktar, 1371

Slender fingers settled upon the edges of the scroll after placing four draconic figurines fashioned from obsidian upon its corners. Intelligent eyes of crystalline violet hue perused the neatly flowing script with absolute diligence—moreso on this occasion than his previous dozen examinations. Like those in times past, he discerned no errors in the formula of the spell. A brilliant mind with a keen mastery of magical theory—specifically in the ways of metamagic—had composed the spell upon this scroll. The scrupulous wording left no doubt about the rumors his followers had conveyed to him about this individual’s prowess.

An Incantator.

A corner of his thin lips upturned into a pleased smirk. He still remembered soaking his blade in the first fool’s blood who attempted using The Prophet’s own creation against him. Over time, he had slaughtered nearly a dozen others who thought to best him. For all their promise in the Art, only he had apprenticed beneath the Master himself in the Weave’s most unique and powerful school. This young half-elf carried the potential well, he decided, but would die upon his blade as easily as the others should the little fool cross paths with him.

A single, strong rap on the chamber door tore him away from those silent contemplations. He shifted his attention towards the duskwood portal, the movement cascading long strands of silky raven hair down his back from its resting place upon his shoulder to reveal delicately pointed ears. “Enter,” he commanded in a melodious tone reminiscent of a nightingale’s song.

The door opened just wide enough to allow a man of average height to pass beyond, his robes of purple silk swishing quietly as he progressed through the small study. Calculative, olive-colored eyes focused upon the floor as he approached the cherry desk harboring his master. Once there, the mage bowed low at the waist in deference. Shelves of tomes and librams containing copious amounts of rare mystical knowledge failed to tempt his gaze away from its dutiful, downcast position. His master enjoyed privacy in the matters which he studied, and many a practitioner of the Art had lost his life to curiosity at the exact location where he now stood.

A long, agonizing moment passed in utter silence. Then another. The mage felt a slow ache forming amidst his lower back from the depth of his compliant position. Another passed. Sweat beaded just below his hairline, tickling his brow as it traced its chaotic course along the skin. And another. The dull pain grew more pronounced in his back as the muscles tightened, obviously desiring to snap his tailbone like a twig. Even so, he held his posture, refusing to allow his body any smidgen of movement.

“Speak, Tantarius.”

The command sounded as if issued from an angel. The mage straightened—being careful to hide the anguished expression from his visage, and lifted his gaze to meet that of his master’s while consciously forbidding it from straying elsewhere. “My lord,” he said hastily. “I bring news.”

The elf raised a hand to rest below his chin, tapping a finger pensively upon his lips. “Report.”

Tantarius reminded himself not to swallow. “My lord, the situation in Tethyr has become grim. Divinations indicate that Haedrak has been reinforced by an army from Waterdeep. They are two thousand strong, well armed and armored, and with able leadership. Vaeryan Hart is less than a tenday’s march from Zazesspur, but, with news of the rightful king back on the throne, his peasant army suffers deserters daily. Without aid, they will fail.”

Silence fell for a short time between them—Tantarius awaiting any response, and the elf peering at the mage, tapping his lips gently with that single graceful digit. Finally, the contemplative one spoke: “Vaeryan Hart is nothing more than a name. We provided that name with the power to sway; if the name has failed to sway, that responsibility lies solely with the Ruinlord. Our part in that bargain has been fulfilled.” He lowered the hand away from his chin in preparation to wave the mage away when those delicate eyebrows came together with a sudden thought. The hand hovered there in limbo for another moment, as he asked, “What news of Hanatar?”

“Crownguard has renounced his claim on the throne, my lord. He now pays homage to Haedrak III as his king.”

“Oh—that will not do,” the elf declared softly, rhythmically. “I fear he must be made example of, my dear Tantarius. You will see to it, of course . . . .” his voice trailed off expectantly.

“Of course, my lord,” came the obvious—and immediate—reply.

The elf’s smile was musical. “Delightful. Do be sure to send word when the time is upon us. I wish to view the spectacle from here.”

Tantarius bowed low once again. “I will see that you are given ample notification beforehand, my lord, that you might prepare the proper divina—“

“No, Tantarius,” the harmonious voice interrupted. “You fail to understand me. I wish to view the spectacle from here . . . with mine own eyes.”

The mage’s face tightened with confusion at the clarification. He nearly reiterated his former statement when the master’s meaning suddenly dawned on him . . . and his face turned a shade paler. He nearly cleared his throat, but caught himself just in time. “As you desire, my lord,” he stated instead. “It may take time to appease—“

“You are dismissed,” the elf waved him away, his attention already returning to the scroll upon the desk.

“My lord,” the mage bowed even lower. He closed his eyes for the about-face, and made certain they remained downcast as he exited the study.