Irtan, the first archmage of the High Towers, woke from his slumber to the feeling of a magical disturbance. His aging body failed him in more ways that he’d care to admit, but his sense of energies, honed through the years of practicing the craft, never let him down, and he snapped his eyes open, staring into the darkness. No sound disturbed the silence, but he had no doubt that there was someone lurking in his private chamber.
“Who are you?” he asked. If it came to a fight, bed covers put him at a disadvantage even if his body didn’t, but his voice remained every bit commanding. Spells didn’t need spry muscles to kill. “Why are you here?”
“You should know who I am,” the stranger said in a deep tone, “when I tell you I came to discuss the alliance forged a long time ago, one between hig
