Vedseel finally moved.
Not with loud prayers, nor with shimmering magic circles. He chose the quietest place in Castle Morvex the old underground chamber whose stone walls still bore the stains of blood and oaths from generations past. A place where magic had no need to pretend it was holy.
He drove his staff into the stone floor.
"Smoke of memory," he murmured softly, almost like a whisper to something unseen. "Traces left behind by those who were once bound."
A small flame ignited before him not ordinary fire, but a pale greenish light that pulsed like a living breath. Vedseel drew an object from within his robe: a tattered strip of old lace, nearly disintegrated.
Valerie's.
The only remnant of the night when the girl had nearly died by her own magic.
"Don't disappoint me," Vedseel said coldly, then cast the lace into the light.
The flame trembled.
Somewhere far away, the wind began to turn.
