Morgan hadn't been idle over the past few days. He'd been researching spells, rituals to scry the Citadel for the Liber Maleficarius. A consequence of this was that he'd decided to shelve his little research project in favour of dedicating all his energy to the hunt. But none of that was what had him puzzled this morningtide. The source of his indecisiveness was a letter he held in his hand, a little scrunched between long fingers.
A hand accustomed to holding a sword's hilt wrote:Greetings,
I hope this letter finds you well and in good health.
I feel that what we accomplished together was something special, and I think about you often because of it. The citizens of Citadel may never know the extent of your bravery, but Elaine and I do, and we thank you for it...
The story told was heartrending. And Morgan knew this Ulder to be a good man, by all accounts the true hero of the battle at Carling's Point. Worse, he could feel the stirrings of his wanderlust rise up. Whatever else, this expedition promised climes unknown and great adventure.
The problem was that Morgan had convinced himself that he was perfectly happy in the Citadel. He was apprenticed to a competent professor, and his arcane abilities were coming on in leaps and bounds. He had Becca, with whom he was very content, to say the least. And at present he even had a mission, something to set his heart on: the Liber Maleficarius had to be found. So why would he want to drop it all? Why was he even considering doing so?
Lost in his thoughts, Morgan settled into a seat, his sunken hazel eyes scrutinising the words of the letter over and over again. He couldn't shake the image of a book, bound in leather that was unnaturally pale, watching him as he tried to make up his mind.