He stands and walks to the window. In the fading light of the late afternoon, the crowds below in Trafalgar Square exclaim at the prettiness of the fountains, throw food to the nodding pigeons, gaze up at the lofty statue of Nelson, or allow their children to scramble over the great lions at its base. He finds that their seeming ignorance of what is taking place in the world about them—their apparent carefree attitude, their ability to amuse themselves so simply when the order of things is about to come crashing down about their ears—he finds it builds within him a contempt for the masses. Pondering this thought, he admits to himself that, aside from the grudging respect he afforded his father, the only person he ever regarded with anything approaching warm affection was his tutor and mentor, the man who instructed him in the craft and skills of the Sentinels, that same young Latin master who had tended his wounds all those years ago and recognized something special in him, Mr. Reginald Ellis. Ellis had given generously of his time in training Stricklend. Over the remainder of his years at the school the two had met most nights, when all others were slumbering in their dormitories. Ellis had instructed his eager pupil in the history and knowledge of the Sentinels. He had coaxed from him the energy and strength that he had first noticed, along with the boy’s keen intelligence and ability to focus, which so suited him to the art of sorcery. In Stricklend he found a student untroubled by conscience or favor, and one who quickly recognized the beauty of power, the purity of it. Stricklend had learned the Sentinels’ belief that sorcerers and necromancers are made, not born, and that it is their unquestioning allegiance to the group that gives them their strength. He was told of the injustice that had brought about the downfall, centuries ago, when the Lazarus Coven, jealous of the Sentinels’ talents and power, had taken the Elixir and the Great Secret from them, under guise of protecting it, and claiming to be the only possible moral guardians of such dangerous magic. Stricklend soon came to see that regaining what was rightfully theirs was imperative for the society. As he progressed in his schooling, and as his natural flair for the tasks presented to him became obvious, he knew that he himself would be instrumental, after so many generations of waiting and hoping, in reclaiming the Elixir.