“You…you’re one of the masters,” Shawn said, haltingly.

  “Yes, Mr Dennen. That is an astute observation,” the man responded. “Please, walk with me.”

  The master- Mikhail Wydrstone- guided Shawn through the gate.

  “The council has been waiting for you to arrive. Vena was to guide you to us, but we did not expect her to be injured, nor for you to attract the attention of the Inquisition. Come. We must meet with you.” The man sounded at once timeless and weary, and he entered a large hall directly before the gate. They passed through two different sets of double doors, then halted before another. “You will wait here until we summon you. Then, all your questions will be answered.”

  Then he slipped through the doors and was gone, leaving Shawn alone with his thoughts. Vena was hurt, and he was alone with the masters. Really, what was to stop him from just leaving now? What if they also wanted to execute him for his Hunger rune? He stood deliberating, torn between his own safety and, well, curiosity. He really wanted to know what was going on, and this was the place to get that knowledge. It wasn’t as if they had truly tried to hurt him. He could stay, at least for this one meeting.

  As soon as he reached that conclusion, the doors swung open. They creaked slightly as Shawn stepped through, unsure what to expect. He entered into a large, vaulted room, with five raised seats spaced in a semicircle on the far side. Four of the seats were filled, and Shawn could see that one was taken by Master Wyrdstone. Each one was decorated in a different way, out of a different material, and seemed to match the Realms.

  The one in the center was made from a rich beige wood with golden overlays shaped into vines, stalks of grain, bread, and conveyed a feeling of a feast. The man seated upon it was large, with a broad smile upon his magnificently bearded face, and he let out a booming laugh when Shawn entered.

  “So, Mikhail! This is the chosen one? The Champion of the world? Not much to look at, is he?”

  Master Wyrdstone responded from the leftmost chair in the circle, a dark, polished perch inlaid with rubies and upholstered in brightly dyed purple silk. “Peace, Ross. You will see.”

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  A woman called out from the other end, lounging on her throne of what appeared to be a chaotic, melted-together pile of dark, mottled wood. “I don’t know, Ross. He could be. It depends.” She stepped down from her throne, then vanished. Her voice continued, directly behind him. “Can he fight?”

  Shawn whirled, scrambling away from the woman. She stood behind him, pale hair falling over her dark leathers, which covered almost all of her skin, save her vivid purple eyes and the tips of her fingers. Another blur and those same fingers held a blade of deep, eye-twisting black metal to his throat.

  Another voice rang across the council room. “Hey, Rasha, go easy on the guy. Not five minutes into the city and you’ve already got a knife to his throat.” Shawn turned to the voice, making eye contact with the fourth Master in the room. It was a blonde haired guy clad in silvery clothes, his face serious, but eyes dancing with laughter. His seat was all metal, engraved with runes and elaborate diamond-like shapes, and he continued.

  “Let’s start with introductions. I’m Sleric. Master smith of the North, representative of Helmengard, all that. Pleased to meetcha. You’ve already gotten…uh, acquainted with Rasha over there. She’s from Vinrax, so I’d step carefully around her if I were you.”

  He sat down, satisfied that he’d gotten the ball rolling. Shawn stuttered. “Um, nice to…meet you. I’m Shawn. Dennen.”

  Ross laughed again. “Welcome, Shawn! I am Duke Ross, representative of Kelsingdale. Welcome to my city!”

  Mikhail raised a hand in greeting and spoke as well. “We have already partially met, but I will introduce myself formally. Mikhail Wyrdstone, Runemaster of Osirall. Now. You must have questions.”

  Shawn didn’t know where to begin. “Um, yes. Right. Questions. First of all, what am I doing here? And second, what do you all want with me?”

  Master Wyrdstone answered again, steepling his fingers. “I imagine you were called here when the prophecy required it, causing an imbalance in probability which led to you being called here. Did you draw or inscribe any sort of symbol before you…arrived?”

  The symbol from that day, in college. Back before he had to worry about running for his life, and crazy prophecies. A simpler time. “Yes. I accidentally made it on my paper during my non-Euclidean…nevermind. During a class.”

  “Not an accident, friend. As our friend Mikhail loves to say, it was fate,” said Sleric, sitting up straighter. “And in answer to your second question, I thought you would know by now. You’re here to stop the end of the world.”