#2

#2

The sky is brightening, but it is still dawn, so there is not much heat to absorb. The tall towers lining the coast waver gently, bristling with solar power. Inside the tallest tower, a man paces, stopping periodically to pick up a pair of binoculars and stare out the great stone windows, peering into the depths of the world. It is quiet, because everyone is asleep. The sun was still in mid-rise.

“Aspile,” muttered the man, and his winged wizard’s cap rustled, as if cringing at the word. The city—the blotch that marred the wildlands—disgusted the Coast Wizards, and it was Demas’ task to monitor their movement. He put down the binoculars, face grim. A log book lies open before him, and Demas picks up an ink pen, jotting.

“And so the humans come to know of the wildflower, and conspire to uproot it.”

The sun will be up soon, and the other wizards will awaken and head down to the shore to replenish themselves. Demas let out a sigh, and put down the pen. This was not very good.