The magical thread—a thin, luminous filament of pure arcane energy—materialised in the common room of The Twisted Candle, where Eradarin sat contemplating an old text.
The sage's eyes stared at them as the silvery strand wove through the air, leaving a faint trail of sparkling motes in its wake.
To ordinary patrons, it would be invisible, but to a seasoned practitioner of the arcane arts, its message was clear.
"Jaegar," Eradarin whispered, closing his tome with a soft thud.
He rose from his chair, his weathered fingers closing around his staff. The magical thread—a communication technique taught only to the most gifted students of the Academy—pulsed with urgency.
Jaegar was calling for them.
Something had happened.
Ironshade looked up from the corner where he'd been sharpening his massive blade. "What is it, old man?"
"Jaegar has sent a summoning thread," Eradarin replied, already moving toward the door. "Something's amiss."
