|
The Arcane Order |
| Azeron awoke to a violent shudder in his
bones. A cold wind scratched the dry skin of his face. He opened his
eyes to stinging cold, which drew tears to his already swollen eyes. But
he did not need to see his surroundings to know where he was. He
remembered falling asleep, crying quietly to himself, on the patio of
this villa where once he had a home. The sun was not yet up, but the
first shades of lighter blue had begun to creep over the horizon. He had
spent the entire night out on the porch in the cold winter air.
Vertebrae cracked in protest as he propped himself up. The night spent on the cold brick surface had left him aching, but it was nothing compared to what he felt inside. How he still ached for her, despite her words. But she had admitted it openly, and destroyed him in a single sentence. His spirit was gone, his soul crushed. There was nothing to do now, but let his body follow. Despite the pain in his limbs, Azeron made his way to his feet. His jaw chattered as he tried to speak the words. His fingers flailed haphazardly, numb from the winter chill. But somehow, he managed a Recall spell that took him to the guildhouse. Inside, his body would find warmth. Upstairs, he would find the knowledge he needed to carry out his final task. Azeron Daefaroth made his way inside, looking for a journal he had scribbled long ago. In it, he would find the details of the ritual. And, tonight, he would recreate a spell assembled long ago by Owen Simeon. |
The
Library Arcane: The Lord of the Dead