For three nights the Archmage worked in the sanctum, and Wren heard hammers and the soft ring of glass. When he opened the door at last, the crystal on his staff burned clear and steady, and the old tower seemed to hum. "Nothing new," he said. "Only old things made to work properly." Before Wren could ask what that meant, Quill swept in through the window and dropped a scroll on the table. The owl's feathers were wet with rain from the east. The ink on the scroll was brown, not black, and the hand that wrote it was not the Archmage's.
