The air in Headmaster Alistair's office was stale, thick with tension. Sunlight struggled through the high, imposing windows, little warming the room. It was a chamber built for history and heavy decisions, and it held both today.
Alistair sat at the head of his huge oak desk, his face marking a weariness that seemed to stretch well beyond his years. Magister Kellan stood to the right of the table, arms crossed, his face a mask of granite, while Professor Valerius was standing on the left side, looking pale and haunted.
In the middle of the great room, three large communication crystals glowed, projecting the shimmering, life-sized images of the other key Academy Headmasters of the continent.
"The facts speak for themselves," Alistair said, his voice calm but grave and resonating with quiet authority. "The mission to the Isle of Whispers was no simple failure. It was an elaborate trap.
