Two old men stood in a darkened room strewn with books, not quite looking at each other. Both appeared agitated. One was ancient- and wise-looking, with a long white beard, midnight blue robes and a hat embroidered to look like the night sky, and sparkling, intelligent blue eyes, one of which was covered with a monocle. His face was creased with age and laugh lines. There was no hint of laughter there now.

The other one paced the room in tight circles. He was taller, with braided inky black hair and whiskers, black and gold robes, a pale, gaunt, severe looking face, and dark, dark eyes that glittered with... something indistinguishable. Intellect? Contempt? Malice?

There was something else there as well. Tears.

"Malistaire, my friend," the white-bearded one said kindly. "Please think this through. Sylvia wouldn't-"

The man called Malistaire whirled on him with barely controlled rage. "Don't you DARE tell me what she would want! Would she have wanted you to let her die!? Would she have wanted to leave me all alone!?"

"Not alone," the other replied. "You have me, your students, your brother. You're not alone. Not at all."

"Did any of them lift a finger to help her, Ambrose? Did they?" He spat his name like it was a curse. His voice shook with a sob struggling to escape, but he took a deep, calming breath and forced it down. He refused to let the old man see him cry.

"We did, Malistaire. That's not fair and you know it. We all tried, but it was simply too much, even for her."

"You all gave up so easily, but I never did. You could have let me use the-"

"No." Malistaire was sharply cut off. "Even she explicitly told you not to. And just as well. You of all people know it's not right."

"What's RIGHT!?" Malistaire roared. "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT, OLD MAN!"

Ambrose watched his old colleague nervously. Shadows were curling off his clothes. "Now, let's be rational... Calm down, and-"

"Don't tell me what to do! You have no business ordering me around anymore." Malistaire grabbed a tall black staff leaning against the door frame. The red gem began to glow brightly, fueled by anger, bitterness, and grief. "I don't care what you say. I'm going to bring her back. At any cost."

"Please, my friend- don't do anything rash. Your students depend on you!"

"My students can look after themselves, Headmaster," he said scornfully. "But if you do anything to thwart me, I swear that I shall bring you and your precious little school to its knees."

The headmaster reached instinctively for his staff, but Malistaire had had his last word. Already, he was flinging the door open, heading into darkness, into the unknown.