Tairdren's Dream Journal
Morning, 10th of Readying, 1000 CY
This is not a dream.
Andor Kralik stands before you, spells flashing from his fingertips as though he were flicking droplets of water. Five spheres rotate around the archmage’s head. Their counterpart sits in his hand. You knew this was coming, but none of your preparations have amounted to more than an uneven floor for all they have slowed this inexorable force. This is not a dream.
It is clear. You are going to die. Perhaps Orlan can succeed where you have failed, Tanleth. A disintegrating blast of energy causes the wall between you two to fall apart into dust. Perhaps an incantation from the eighth circle will be able to…no. Another of those damnable spheres has glowed, wiping away your efforts. If only there was more time. If only. Now, your death is upon you. This is not a dream.
Another sphere glows, a spell begins to form within your own body. You feel every separate piece of your being begin to come apart. This is not a dream.