The Conclave has agreed to my proposal. I still have some friends after all. The guilds have already taken steps to secure the Conduits in Braidlyn and Lorearthean. Like me, they would see them dismantled. The Arturans have agreed to discuss a potential alliance to invade Zimenyostrav and seize their Conduits. The Serpent Queen started breeding more of those damnable monstrosities of hers in response. War is inevitable now.

Guntram was less than pleased when I returned with the Inquisitors and my plan to remove our Conduit. I thought he was going to try to seal himself in the labs and force the Conclave wizards into a siege. Instead, he left to visit a friend of his in the South. I warned him to be cautious. Raven’s Keep has been active in the region. I fear what should become of my partner if he were to fall under their influence.

Dated 3rd of 7th Moon, Year 981 of the 100th millennium, from a journal found in the ruins of Castle Reid.

“Blasphemy.”

The word cut across the serenity of the Shah’s rose garden, Asad’s tone laced with vitriolic outrage. Willow stared at the Shah unblinkingly, his finger still resting upon the open Book of Cerurile. Shaba had turned her gaze away from the pages, looking haughtily at the roses to her right.

“I beg your intoler- excuse me, your interminable pardon, Majesty?” Willow struggled to speak, his face frozen in the excited expression he’d worn while demonstrating his discovery.

“You dare come into my palace spreading your detestable lies?” The Shah growled. He spit on the page of the book that Willow held open, eliciting a gasp from the wizard. “Leave this city and never return, or I will have your tongue cut from your head and you will be crucified above the Arena, just as Archmage Osman was!”

Willow’s jade eyes flashed with shock and he looked back and forth from the Shah to the book. He frantically wiped at the splatter of saliva on the page with the sleeve of his robe, smudging the ancient ink just enough to notice, but not ruin the diagrams.

“I-I-I don’t understand,” Willow said, his voice cracking. He looked to Shaba, but she would not look back at him.

“The Crown of Stars was built by Shihabi, the Great White Star Above,” Asad said, gesturing wildly with his hands. “The Conclave’s slander has no place in my kingdom!”

“I do not represent the Conclave!” Willow insisted. “With the secrets we can uncover, you could destroy the Conclave for all I care! But we must acknowledge the truth that this book reveals!”

“No!” Asad shouted, ripping a perfectly healthy rose from the bush, throwing it down and stamping it into the dirt. “Shihabi built the crown from her sweat and tears! It was the beacon to guide my people to Paradise! Not some elfish abomination!”

“This book proves everything!” Willow cried. “You cannot deny me after all this time just because of blind prejudice and myth!”

“Myth?!” Asad reeled as if the word itself was painful for him.

“These miracles of the desert are not just beacons, but magnificent frameworks of magic and machinery!” Willow continued, slamming his book closed and waving his arm towards the three crystalline towers that loomed above the palace. “They were built by the elves! As instructed to them by the King of the Ancients, Bezerenbam! Shihabi, as you know her, was his Elfish Consort!”

“No!” Asad shouted. His chest heaved with deep breaths and his complexion darkened as blood boiled in his cheeks. “How dare you? Shihabi was no degenerate… knife-eared… fairy!”

“F-fairy?” Willow balked at the odd slur. “My Lion, surely even you cannot be so blinded by racism--”

“Racism,” Asad spat the word as if it were a sour grape. “An imagined word made up by Northerners to scorn the enlightened. My God was not an elfish turd born of shit!”

“How unbecoming of a king.” Willow’s face contorted in rage, and he turned to leave with his book. “May your line fall to ruin and the desert sands consume your infernal city!”

“Do not turn your back on me, wizard!” Asad roared, grabbing the shears from his basket and throwing them at Willow, missing by a wide margin. “Shaba! Have this man killed! Immediately!”

“Calm yourself Asad,” Shaba said, raising a finger adorned with rings of gold. Willow halted, looking over his shoulder with an expression of deep confusion. “You conduct yourself like a child. Shall he leave, or face you? Will you execute him, or throw toys at him? You haven’t matured at all, even now as you grow old and fat.”

Willow stared in shock as the supreme deity of the Sarrassad Caliphate fell silent before Shaba, the old man almost pouting as she stepped forward, her hands beckoning Willow back to her.

“I must offer you my apologies,” she said. Willow was silent as she took his arm, turning him around to lead him further inside of the palace. The foul smell she gave off was overpowering. “The Padishah is a sensitive man. He relies on me to navigate the intricacies of state outside the royal courts. It is why I have retained my position as Vizir for so many years.”

“I’m sure he would be lost without you,” Willow replied nervously. The pair walked past the Shah, who glared after them as they went before waddling off to retrieve his garden shears.

Shaba’s hands were small but deceptively strong, and as cold as ice. Her grip held firm on Willow’s arm while she guided him into the inner palace. She took him into a secluded wing, down several flights of stairs until the air cooled considerably and no windows offered any natural light. Instead, oil fueled lamps illuminated the corridors with soft yellow light.

Shaba turned Willow into a room with a heavy wooden door and led him inside, closing the door behind them. The chamber was comfortable, intimate, and well lit by several enchanted stones resting in braziers that hung from the ceiling. Books and scrolls filled the shelves that lined the wall. Two red velvet couches faced each other in the center of the room, on an intricate rug of Yaolan Shan design. A table rested between them.

At the back of the room, between two bookshelves was a massive wooden desk with a fine chair, and resting upon it was a great stone basin filled with water. Willow turned to look at Shaba, and saw that she was watching him with interest, her hands resting against her generous hips.

“I apologize for my initial hostility, Master Willow,” she finally spoke, walking towards him with a gentle sashay. As she moved past him, she ran her hand over his shoulder, and he felt the chill of her touch through his robe. “The Padishah trusts no magicians, and I must act in his best interests.”

“You said he’d be pleased about my discovery,” Willow said, watching her sit on one of the couches. Shaba spread herself over the soft velvet of the couch, and she motioned for him to sit on the couch across from her.

Shaba watched Willow move with the eyes of a predator as he sat gingerly on the couch, resting the book at his side.

“He will be pleased,” Shaba replied. She reached over her head to a side table that sat alongside her couch, and picked up a small silver bell. She rang it, a soft chime echoing through the room. “My duty is to convince him of the great service you have done for us this day. I have spent most of my life studying the Crown of Stars and I have never divined what the Ancients would have used them for.”

Following the ring of the bell, one of the scroll shelves swung open, and a shirtless, sarrasad boy entered. He carried a tray with two cups, a large metal pitcher that was drenched with condensation, and a plate of savory cakes. He set the tray on the table and filled the cups with a clear, reddish liquid, handing a cup first to Shaba, and then to Willow.

Willow sipped from the cup and found the drink to be sweet, and light, with no trace of alcohol. He recalled that liquors, wines and spirits were forbidden in the Caliphate decades ago by the previous Shah, a policy that Asad had carried on to reinforce the purity of his kingdom.

The boy bowed deeply and left the room, closing the bookshelf behind him as he went. Willow watched him go with some measure of interest while Shaba took a cake from the table and bit into it daintily.

Eager to end the silence, Willow spoke. “I have not actually been able to determine the purpose of the towers themselves, if there is one. The book primarily concerns itself with the inner workings of the Conduit and the chambers below.”

Shaba glanced at him, her eyes flashing with predatory intrigue. She swallowed her cake.

“Does it describe how the machine was built?” she asked.

“No,” Willow said. “The Ancients were meticulous in destroying all blueprints and repair manuals. This book is actually a general guide on how to operate the machine, for elf laborers who maintained the irrigation system.”

“Maintain,” Shaba said, her forehead creasing as she contemplated the word. “You mean, the machine can be turned on and off?”

“Indeed,” Willow said. “It wasn’t activated often. Bear in mind the Conduits were in operation for several hundred years before the Ancients fell. When the water reserves beneath the city ran low, the elves merely needed to activate the Conduit and it would replenish the lake.”

“Fascinating,” Shaba said, mulling over the information. “It makes sense. What would happen if the Conduit was left on indefinitely?”

“The stress on the conduit would cause it to rupture within a year,” Willow said, waving off the notion.

“It has been one hundred thousand years, by my estimate, since the elves built the Crown,” he continued. “In that time, the lake has continuously produced water as needed. Yes, it’s underground and that does slow evaporation, but it does not account for saturation of the surrounding bedrock, the massive scale of consumption of Aljana in the four thousand years it has existed, not to mention all of the water that is transported to the other cities of the Caliphate.”

“Someone is operating the Conduit,” Shaba said quietly, staring at her half empty cup.

“Someone has been operating the Conduit for one hundred thousand years,” Willow followed up, leaning forward, his eyes alight with excitement.

“And if we were to access the Conduit, take it for ourselves?” she demanded, glancing at the wizard.

Willow smiled and tapped the book. “You have an instruction manual on how to operate it, and there’s a strong chance the Conduit can be configured to produce stele!”

“God above.” Shaba rested her hand against her chest, taking several deep breaths. “Why would you reveal this to us, after all that the Padishah has done to your kind? What is it that you want in return?”

“I desire knowledge,” he said, taking one of the savory cakes and popping it into his mouth. He swallowed before continuing. “Knowledge is power. And what is power, if you have no one to share it with?”

“Your generosity is boundless,” Shaba replied with a smile, and Willow noted that from a distance, she was truly and boundlessly beautiful. “Tell me. How do we access the inside of the Crown?”

Willow smiled, and tilted his head slightly, searching his mind for an appropriate answer.

“Perhaps if you would allow me to demonstrate,” he said, setting his cup on the table and standing up. Shaba watched him for a moment before slowly rising off of the couch, setting her cup down as well. “Could you take me to the towers now?”

“The towers are off limits to outsiders,” she said. “Tell me what is required, and I will make the proper arrangements.”

Willow paused, and he suddenly felt very cold. He set the book on the table, and opened it to one of the first pages, which depicted an illustration of a small, spiral shaped object made of a yellow-gold material. It had a small handle at its base.

Alongside the illustration of the object was a diagram of the base of one of the towers, with a hole drawn in at chest level.

“The Crown of Stars can be accessed at the base of the central tower,” Willow said, pointing at the diagram. “As you can see, the Ancients designed a key in the shape of a spiral that could be inserted in the base of the tower and used to open it.”

“Impossible,” Shaba replied tersely. “There is no hole at the base as described here.”

“The hole only presents itself in proximity to the key,” Willow continued. “All one must do is insert the key, give it a twist and--”

He flipped the page to show a diagram demonstrating the insertion of the key and a section of the base sliding downwards into the ground.

“Voila!”

“And you have this key?” Shaba asked, turning her gaze up to willow.

“Yes,” Willow said, and then cringed as he realized he’d spoken too quickly. “Well, no, I did. I had it.”

Shaba and Willow both straightened their backs and locked eyes, and Shaba’s expression became one of disbelief and anger.

“Master Willow,” she said, her silky voice hardening. “Can you elaborate on ‘had it’?”

“The key,” Willow said, stopping to breath, and he gagged as the rotten meat smell intensified in the room. “The key was stolen in the Southern Quarter bazaar this morning.”

“Stolen how?” Shaba snapped. “By who? You did not spellseal it?”

“I did seal it,” Willow said, swallowing as he did his best to ignore the stink of death that permeated the chamber. “I used one of my most powerful spells, but it was broken.”

“Impossible,” Shaba seethed. “There are no mages in Aljana!”

“There are!” Willow choked. “And they stole the key to the Crown!”

“Prinde si sufoca!” The spell tore from Shaba’s lips like a hidden dagger and Willow was lifted off of the ground as the air was pulled from his lungs and his throat closed by an invisible force, rendering him unable to breath or speak.

The shelves rattled as Willow’s back struck against them, and he tried to gasp in pain, but the air would not enter his lungs. His face began to turn a deep red, tears streamed down his face and into his beard and he kicked desperately against the shelves behind him.

“Stolen by who?!” The sorceress Shaba demanded, her horrible shout echoing on the stone walls. She whipped her hand to the side and Willow was thrown across the room, striking the couch she’d been resting on, sending it tumbling backwards and him down with it.

Shaba released her spell, and Willow could breathe again, and he struggled not to vomit as the foul reek of her dark magic filled his nostrils and throat like a thick, viscous soup of death.

“Who stole my key?!” Shaba screamed, her voice taking on an inhuman nature. Willow was lifted into the air and thrown against the ceiling by an unspoken spell. He saw her as she threw him and her twisted visage was not that of beauty, but of ruin and her eyes were as black as night.

Willow struck the ceiling hard, and the air left his lungs and he felt a knot forming on the back of his skull. Blood filled his mouth and dribbled from his lips, splattering on the beautiful rug below. The weight of her magic pressed him there, and kept him pinned against the ceiling. Willow closed his eyes and took a deep breath,

The room went dark, and Willow let the terrifying image of Shaba melt from his mind. Instead, the only presence in the room was Willow, and the ruby that inlaid the buckle of his belt. He envisioned the stone in his mind, focused only on it, and poured himself into it. His eyes snapped open, and his spell boomed against the walls of the chamber.

“Garda vrajilor!”

Shaba was knocked back and stumbled as the air around willow shifted, and his spell ward disrupted her magic. Willow fell to the ground, but a silent spell allowed him to slow enough to reorient himself and land on his feet.

Willow backed away from Shaba, pointing a finger at her as he created a buffer between them, ready to cast another spell.

“Do not challenge me in the art of battle-magic, witch!” he commanded, his voice ringing with stern authority and righteous anger. “I come here as a friend, not a subordinate to be beaten and bullied by the likes of you!”

As if to challenge this, Shaba, her face still contorted with anger, but having regained her human features, snapped her fingers. A flash of light sparked in between them. Willow whipped his hand to the side, deflecting her spell with his ward, and the flash erupted against the bookcase, splintering wood and shredding the pages of manuscripts older than twice his own lifespan.

Willow lunged forward, shouting “Prindere!”

Shaba was lifted off of her feet this time and thrown against the wall, pinned.

“I yield!” she hissed, struggling to breath under the pressure of Willow’s magic. “I yield!”

Willow relented and released the spell, allowing Shaba to fall to the ground. She sported a bloody nose, and wiped it with the hem of her skirts.

“I underestimated you, Apostate,” she whispered shallowly, and Willow glared at her. “You were wise to hide a focus on your person, in such plain view that even the guards would miss it. I apologize for my temper.”

“This is the third time you have apologized to me,” Willow said, lowering his hands and dismissing his spell ward with a sigh. His polite and formal manner had melted away. “Necromancy is a poor way to maintain one’s looks, Shaba. You reek of death and despair. How many men have you sacrificed for your facade?”

Shaba rose to her feet, and her appearance had changed at the expenditure of her magical spells. Her hair had lost some of its reddish luster, and strands of gray streaked throughout. Her eyes were framed by crow’s feet and her cheeks had sunken in.

“It matters not how I retain my vigor,” she replied coldly. “My arts have served me well. I ask again, who stole it?”

“A child,” Willow replied, and he was surprised to see a look of shock appear on Shaba’s face for an instant, and he continued. “A young sarrasad boy, naked aside from his waist-wrap. Thin, and frail. He used a spell to break my own seal, and stole the key from my person. He had a companion, a Northern boy with black hair, and blue eyes. The orcish guards who guided my caravan are seeking them out in the city.”

Shaba’s features twisted again at the mention of the Northboy, but she quelled her rage, and Willow noted this reaction with impassive curiosity. She composed herself and spoke.

“I see,” Shaba said quietly. “We may be in luck, Master Willow.”

“How so?” Willow asked, looking mildly perplexed.

“In my heart,” she said with a thin smile. “I have always been a mother. I am the matron of the city’s orphans, and I do my best to maintain their sensibilities. The boys you described may reside in the home for orphaned and unwanted children in that district. I will pay it a visit and find out who these boys are.”

“I am glad you take this matter seriously,” Willow said. “I beg your forgiveness for losing something so precious.”

“My reaction was proportionate if not premature,” Shaba said, tilting her head back as she regarded the man. “If a degenerate nonhuman were to obtain something so precious, they may use it as a weapon against their Lord Lion in rebellion for all that they have endured. If that were to happen, Master Willow, I would hold you personally responsible, and I would not be so forgiving as to give you an avenue to strike me back.”

“Threats are unbecoming of one so beautiful,” Willow replied with a cold smile. “I will return to my camp, as it surely has gotten dark by now. Send for me if you should learn anything Lady Shaba. I shall return if my orcs find the key.”

“Do not drag your feet if they do.” Shaba replied. She waved her hand, and the door swung open. Willow took his book and left. He was greeted by guardsmen in the courtyard, and they guided him out of the palace grounds.

It had grown dark in the time Willow had been in the palace, and the moon hung low overhead, casting light on the city of Aljana. Captain Mehmed and Gabir waited at his cart. Mehmed dismissed the guards with a hand signal, and stood by with a hand on his sword.

“You are bleeding, Master Willow,” Gabir said, opening the door on the cart for Willow. “Is everything alright?”

Willow blinked, and dabbed his lips with his robe and came away with blood. He shook his head and sighed, producing a handkerchief from his sleeve and he cleaned himself up.

“Did something happen with the Shah?” Mehmed asked cautiously, his hand still on his sword.

“The meeting went as well as could be expected,” Willow said, handing his book to Gabir, who pensively kept his silence. “The Vizir, however, is something truly evil and I regret meeting her.”

“How do you mean?” Mehmed asked, watching Willow climb into the cart.

“It’s best you not know, son,” Willow said. “But I am one step closer to achieving my goal and that is all that matters.”

“Captain,” Gabir said. “Do you need a ride back to your post?”

“I am grateful,” Mehmed said, shaking his head. “But I must meet with the Vizir to ensure the safety of the Padishah. Present your pass at the gate and your things will be returned. Ride safely.”

“Be well,” Willow said, and Gabir urged his ox forward, riding into the night.

The land outside the walls of Aljana was dry, dusty and inhospitable. For hundreds of miles, not a single plant could survive the ever rising and receding dunes of the Copper Sea. There were no oases, no waystations or outposts. Only sand lay between the border of the Caliphate and the City of Heaven.

The walls of Aljana were worn flat and featureless by the windblown sands. The guards stationed at the city gates wore helmets that covered their entire faces. The insides were lined with a cloth to filter sand, and the eyes on the helmets were narrowed to restrict exposure to sunlight, but still permit adequate visibility at night.

The desert guardsmen watched impassively as Gabir’s oxcart rolled to a halt near the edge of the gate. Wheeled vehicles were useless once one left the city walls, as the sand bogged them down and the animals could gain no traction. The sarrasad driver disembarked and opened the door to the cart, and Willow climbed down, staff in hand, his lip crusted with blood. The wizard’s expression was troubled, almost sad.

“Willow,” Gabir said, placing a hand on the taller man’s arm. “Speak to me as a friend. What troubles you so, that you leave the finest cart in the land as if the seat were made of jagged stone?”

Willow paused, and then spoke with the slightest hint of a smile.

“I am not a good man Gabir,” he said, looking the sarrasad man in the eye. “I have done many things in the pursuit of power that I regret. Here, I have a chance to set those wrongs right and create a new world.”

“A noble thing,” Gabir replied. “All men have regrets, my friend, but not often the power to mend them.”

“In my experience,” Willow said, gripping his staff and twisting his palms against it. “When a man sees evil, stands up, says enough is enough, the whole world looks back at him and says ‘no’. That is the opposition I face here.”

Gabir ruminated on the words, staring at the ground before responding.

“The people who say no are often the ones who feed on suffering,” he said thoughtfully. “Do not let the parasites deter you Willow. You will find what you seek here, in the greatest city on Lumea.”

“You soften my heart,” Willow said, offering his hand, and Gabir gripped it firmly. “Should I need a friend, or a ride, I will not hesitate to call upon you. Speaking of!”

Willow reached into his robe and produced a small sack, and from within that purse he produced five silver coins. “Your payment.”

Gabir took the coins gratefully, and pocketed them.

“Thank you kindly. Be well, Willow.”

“Be well.”

Willow left Gabir, and tread the sands, moving along the city wall. He could hear the sounds of activity, laughter and music, and he could smell the cookfires in the wind, lingering among the earthy scent of sand. He heaved himself up a dune, using his staff to support himself, and he came upon a stretch of flat stone upon which Dermot’s caravan had established its camp.

Due to the hostility of the desert and the lack of roads, wagons were useless in crossing the Copper Sea. Instead, the dwarfish merchant Dermot owned the two thousand camels that formed his caravan train, carrying goods, food, water and supplies for himself and all of his workers.

The caravan camp was a village in its own right, spread as far as Willow could see in the night, and over twenty pillars of smoke indicated the communal fires used to prepare supper for the almost five-hundred elves, dwarves and orcs in Dermot’s employ.

Willow entered the camp, ready to find his tent and climb into his hammock bed, to sleep and never wake up. These plans were interrupted by the arrival of Dur-uk, the burly orc carrying a bowl of steaming curry. The orc seemed surprised to see him, and waved Willow to him.

“Willow,” the orc said, his gruff voice jovial. “I’m glad you’re back. Got good news.”

“You found my key?” Willow’s face lit up with delight, even though it hurt somewhat to smile.

“I got bad news too,” Dur-uk replied, stirring the curry with a spoon. Orcs tended to behave awkwardly when put on the spot.

“Good God man,” Willow groaned, covering his eyes with his hand in frustration. “Fine, out with it. What’s the bad news?”

“We found the kid that had the key and lost him,” Dur-uk said. “One of them boys is a wizard, see, and he blocked us with some good magic.”

“I gathered that one of them could use magic,” Willow said, exasperation clear in his voice. “So you lost the one with the key. What’s the good news?”

“We caught the li’l wizard,” Dur-uk said with some amount of self satisfaction. “He’s bound up in the tent next to yours, good and secure.”

Willow blinked, and nodded slowly.

“Now that,” he said. “That is good news. That is very good news. Is that your dinner?”

Dur-uk looked down at the curry. It was chicken in a red sauce served over long-grain rice grown in the Lustalma district.

“No,” the orc said. “I got this for the li’l wizard. Kids in this town look half starved and I kinda felt bad for ‘em.”

“You have a generous heart,” Willow said with a genuine smile. “A credit to your people.”

“I learnt it from me auntie,” Dur-uk said, sniffing. “Hildie’s mum.”

“She’s a human, no?” Willow inquired, and Dur-uk nodded.

“Well, if it isn’t an imposition,” the wizard continued. “I’ll take the bowl to our guest and introduce myself.”

Dur-uk handed off the bowl to Willow, and reached into a pocket on his vest, producing a small wooden bear on a string.

“You’ll want this too,” Dur-uk said. “His magic focus. This thing got off some mean spells. Poor Krum’s hair got burnt off, eyebrows too. The boys ain’t lettin’ him live it down.”

Willow hooked a finger on his staff hand into the cord of the necklace, and he examined it closely. “Fascinating.”

Dur-uk departed, likely to get his own dinner, and Willow made his way to the center of the camp, going mostly ignored by the workers he passed by. Some, who paid enough attention to notice, gave the wizard a friendly nod or wave, which he returned kindly.

Willow could feel his mood improving as he came to his own tent, which was not a grand affair, but was big enough to accommodate a portable writing table, chair, hammock and his luggage trunk. A small tent that was usually kept for guests had been set up next to his, likely for the benefit of keeping the captured child under guard.

A single guard was posted across from the tent, and he was enjoying his bowl of curry and rice, while watching with amusement as a tall, adolescent girl peeked into the tent flap.

“Brunhilde,” Willow said clearly, causing the girl to jump and spin to face him. “I see you’ve been keeping our guest company.”

Brunhilde was an orc, a half-orc to be more specific, with long peach-red hair tied behind her head with a faded red ribbon. She had lilac eyes and small, stubby tusks jutting from her lower lip. She wore a tan colored tunic that had the sleeves torn off and her arms were thick with corded muscle.

“Willow!” she chided him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, old man!”

“Pardon me madame,” Willow said with a hint of sarcasm. “I shall endeavor to announce myself in the future.”

“Good,” she said, crossing her arms. “Who’s the kid?”

“I don’t know,” Willow said, shrugging his shoulders. “I haven’t met him. If you’d run along, I’ll gladly find out and report my discovery to you in detail over breakfast in the morning.”

“I wanna meet the scrawny punk!” the young she-orc yelled, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other. Willow recognized it as an exercise warm up. “If he tries anything I’ll knock his teeth out!”

“I have no need for a bodyguard,” Willow said, stepping around her and to the door of the tent. “And I’d rather conduct this on my own. Go find your cousin.”

“Fine!” she said her arms going slack in defeat, and she stomped off, pouting.

Willow maneuvered his way into the tent, and found it empty, aside from a wooden post that supported it that had been stuck into the ground, and a young boy in torn clothes. He sported matted black hair, blue eyes, and he reeked of garbage. His feet were bare and calloused, and he watched Willow with mixed fear and awe.

Willow looked at the boy’s hands and saw that they were bound securely, and tied to the pole. His wrists were red and chafed, indicating his struggle to break free.

Willow glanced at the ropes and spoke a hushed word: “Slabi.”

The ropes came loose and fell away. The boy gave a start and clutched at his wrists, scooting across the floor and away from Willow.

“That’s the spell you used to steal my bag,” Willow said, and the child stopped, turning to look up at the wizard. “Clever. Did you know that I’d used a magical seal on the knot?”

The boy shook his head in the negative, and Willow smiled, impressed.

“Fascinating! Tell me son, what is your name?”

The boy was silent for a moment, staring at Willow. Then he spoke.

“Callum,” he said. “It’s Callum.”

End of Chapter 4