The horizon stares back in an unbroken line, a brilliant, multihued sunset hanging above it. There was a sunset like this one when they set out, Alaric recalls, spilling over every color imaginable. Alaric’s light magery frenzied and he struggled to beat back his reflexive joy in seeing sacred and profane hues so confusingly blended. Just like everything seems disturbingly mixed up in him right now. He watches the unsettlingly beautiful sunset, unable to shake the dread fixed in him like a stone wedged deep in his core.

“A blessed evening to you, Mage.”

Alaric startles at the resonant voice as Vogel joins him, his expression serene. Excitements sparks in Alaric over finding himself alone in his mentor’s charismatic, trusted presence, but is quickly dampened. He can’t help it. His eyes flick warily toward the outline of the Wand sheathed under Vogel’s cloak.

Struggling to suppress his unease, Alaric gives the expected, polite response. “May you be blessed by the Ancient One’s Holy Light.” He glances again toward the Wand, and can see, by the flick of Vogel’s own gaze, that his mentor has noticed him noticing.

“What’s troubling you, Mage?” Vogel asks, his pale green eyes penetrating.

“I’m concerned...” Alaric starts, striving to assemble his thoughts as Vogel patiently waits. “I’m concerned that—” his gaze flicks yet again to the Wand “—that we’re making a mistake. Bringing that to the Continent of the Realms.”

Vogel nods placidly, as if he was expecting this. “You heard the demon,” he reasons. “The Wand was sending out lures to be found and taken up by heathens. It was by the Ancient One’s grace that the Death Fae mistook us for Dryad demons.”

Alaric nods. A huge stroke of luck, indeed. He scans the Wand’s outline, unable to keep the seditious thoughts from rising. Was it truly luck? Or should we run from this thing?

“How do we know the Wand won’t use us for evil?” The words rush out of Alaric, the Fae’s warning something he can’t shake, even though it came from an Evil One.

Vogel’s lip lifts. “Because we are Mages. Filled with the Ancient One’s own grace. Any Tool of Power in our hands will be transformed.”

Alarm knifes through Alaric. “But...you said you were going to destroy it.” His gaze darts west, and he notices that the sunset is now a dim imprint, blasts of color receded.

Swallowed by darkness.

“‘Unholy is the Mage who doubts the Will of the Ancient One,’” Vogel murmurs.

Alaric’s brow tenses over Vogel’s ominous choice to recite this passage from the Book. He turns just as Vogel gently reaches for the Wand and murmurs the penitent’s spell—the earth spell used to discipline priest-apprentices who stray. The spell that stings the apprentice with a small lash of power, a prod to stay on the Path of the Holy.