The young-seeming man sat down in his cramped room in the southwest attic. The whole room was crammed with books. They were his Hoard, the source of his power. On the desk was a griffin-quill pen and the book he had set about making.

He had come to a crucial part in the book and ordinary ink would not suffice. He picked up the pen and pierced himself in the palm. Dragon’s blood was the most potent of all inks for weaving magic, and many of his kind had been slain for it. He’d put this off for a while—he had a tendency to leave the House without warning for long periods of time. But now at last it was time to write and nothing would interrupt him.

His wrist communicator buzzed. Why hadn’t he turned the stupid thing off? “Garsecg! We need your help!” shouted Elshanor. “The robot’s gone berserk! It’s burning down the tapestries, and now it’s trying to make out with my statue!”

Garsecg sighed. It looked as if the writing would have to wait. Again.