Thud. Thud. Thud.
The staff cleared the glamour that guised itself as a hollow, unoccupied alley. Like a torn gift wrap it slowly cascaded into a place tinged with a dim-red color. There were rats scattered all over the rump, and on the further end was a man tied and beat-up. Lucas stepped towards the un-glamoured place and then he felt a shiver down his spine.
Infernal magic. It was reeking of it.
On the end of the alley—situated on the dead-end was an injured Orwell. Lucas walked towards his rival, implausibly injured to his unconscious—who in the world could have done this to a man who earned the title Lotheringwood, and was a magician of Ianua I? Lucas tightened his grip to his staff, as he stood close in front of Orwell.
Orwell's glasses were broken, smithereens laying on the floor.
"Orwell," Lucas asks. "What the hell happened here?"
