Book One – Chapter 13

But it had all been in vain. They could have encountered adventurers who would have offered protection, or guild envoys patrolling the Snowtrail, who could have escorted them directly to the Albweiss Mountain Guild. Instead, fate had delivered them into the hands of orks — orks wielding magic in ways Salgier could ever have believed possible twelve years ago.

Salgier struggled to rise. He had no energy left to shift, nothing left to move. His body refused to obey, his mind slipping away. Could he trust Barbarthara to carry the message? Was she alive, could she survive without him? And what of Sahir?

There was nothing left of him but fading thoughts. Salgier had lived for one hundred and nine years, a life unmarked by grand events or accolades, but a fair life nonetheless. His name would not linger with this world. He was unremarkable, lacking the achievements that might etch a wizard’s name into the annals of history. He had been no-one special to anyone, but a good enough man to rest with a measure of peace each night.

The last twelve years, spent in captivity, had been one continuing nightmare, but the years before held fleeting moments of genuine joy. These were the memories he clung to, fleeting fragments that had occasionally surfaced amidst the void left by the witches’ cruel experiments.

In every respect, he was a seasoned wizard, with more years behind him than ahead. Yet, in these final moments, Salgier felt like a child — helpless and alone. He longed to see his familiar. He wanted to see Sahir, but his vision had drastically blurred and he was unable to switch to second sight. He wished to see him awake, to know that he would be safe, but also, as selfish as it was, to have him at his side, to not face death alone.