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	Alas, when Jazelle opened her eyes, she was still in the courtyard, the man claiming to be a Necromancer still tightly gripping her shoulder. She looked to the door ahead of them. What little amount of its handle that had not rusted glinted mockingly in the firelight of the torch the second figure still held.
	If she was not waking up, then she had to fight back. It was [i]her[/i] dream, after all. She looked around her, trying to find something that could be of use, or pose a distraction long enough for her to pull away and get a few good kicks in. But then, there was the other man. Or woman. Whatever it was. She turned her head, trying to get a good look at the other figure as Kyrell reached for the handle of the rotting, moss-eaten door. 
	Jazelle’s attention snapped back to Kyrell when a snarl distorted his face. Then, as he spun around, he released her shoulder.
	[i]Yes![/i] Jazelle turned with him, the other figure’s gaze following it’s master’s, leaving Jazelle unwatched behind them. Not bothering to see what had riled the two up, she inched away, trying to move her hands into her pocket for her knife as the Necromancer raised both his hands, more red mist glittering in his palms.
	But then came the light. A blinding flash that made Jazelle shout and scrunch her now burning eyes shut and Kyrell hiss in pain and anger sliced through the darkness. She staggered away, and her back hit the bricks of the building a second before she felt someone ram into her, arms wrapping around her.
	“NO!” a vicious, inhuman voice snarled, as if multiple voices had cried out the word at once.
	Jazelle shouted and squirmed in the grasp of whoever had ahold of her now before, for a split second, it felt as if the ground beneath her had vanished, the blinding white light behind her eyelids disappearing with it.

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	The few weeks the students attending Whitehall Academy had had off had offered the Maesters and Grandmaster no rest. They could feel the presence of something dark lurking around the school, watching, waiting. Whatever it was, it was nothing good, and they had yet to discover what, exactly, “it” was. With the council of the Maesters--those who had studied magic all their lives and come to teach at the academy at the Grandmaster’s request--the Grandmaster had decided it would be safer to change their normal starting schedule. He had sent letters to the elite few worthy to study at his school that, this term, they were to arrive beneath the cover of night come the [i]Fatum Lunaris,[/i] a few days ahead of their normal schedule, with classes to commence at their normal start date. Any dropping off children were welcomed to stay until the morning, if need be, to provide them a safer return trip.
	More Wardens than usual stood guard around the building. Each clay-and-armor beast with their slender, metal falcon-like heads and clay plumage bursting forth from their necks kept a vigilant watch. Only their heads moved, twitching toward any unusual sound. They all stood the same, the butts of their partisans resting against the ground and clawed hands adorned in bladed talons.
	So far, everything had gone according to plan. No surprises. No attacks. Now, the Grandmaster watched with two of his strongest Wardens flanking him, as thirty students said their farewells and carried their luggage toward the grand building. He had just begun to hope that everything would go without a hitch, when a [i]boom[/i] echoed around them.
	In an instant, the casual stance of every Warden shifted for battle, their weapon held in both hands, ready to strike or defend, a couple giving out a surprised, metallic screech as every pair of eyes turned to the new arrivals.

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	“Good--" the man who had just released Jazelle began from behind her.
Before he could get more than that first word out, she opened her eyes, her gaze on the ground at her feet, took half a step forward, gave a guttural shout, and kicked back as hard as she could. She pulled at the ropes binding her arms behind her as she spun to face whoever had grabbed her, a hostile mix of fear and confusion on her face. She hissed as it felt like the rope tightened itself painfully around her slender wrists.
	“Who’re [i]you[/i] now, huh?” she shouted wildly, eyeing him before her surroundings had time to sink in. “Gandalf Junior, master of... the...?” The question trailed off when their audience finally registered. A girl who looked about a year younger than her dropped her suitcase nearby, its top popping open slightly and her mouth agape. But it was not the people dressed in period clothes, nor the coaches and carriages that drew her attention.
	Her gaze hung on the bird-like creatures wielding pole arms, a few pointing their metal spikes toward her and the man.
	“Oh, boy,” she said slowly, turning to look at the various other metal-clad creatures that had woven their way protectively through the gathering of teens and adults. “This... [i]can’t[/i] be good,” she finished in a mutter. “Uh,” she continued softly, her eyes wide and hands twisting nervously around the rope as she surveyed the scene, “uncle?”[/hider]

	Alas, when Jazelle opened her eyes, she was still in the courtyard, the man claiming to be a Necromancer still tightly gripping her shoulder. She looked to the door ahead of them. What little amount of its handle that had not rusted glinted mockingly in the firelight of the torch the second figure still held.
	If she was not waking up, then she had to fight back. It was [i]her[/i] dream, after all. She looked around her, trying to find something that could be of use, or pose a distraction long enough for her to pull away and get a few good kicks in. But then, there was the other man. Or woman. Whatever it was. She turned her head, trying to get a good look at the other figure as Kyrell reached for the handle of the rotting, moss-eaten door. 
	Jazelle’s attention snapped back to Kyrell when a snarl distorted his face. To her surprise, the Necromancer spun around, releasing her shoulder in the process as he shot a burst of glowing red energy from his palm.
	[i]Yes![/i] Jazelle turned to see what had caught the man’s attention, the crimson magic lighting the night and overpowering the waning green tint that had slowly begun to recede from the moon. Even Kyrell’s companion turned from her, leaving her unwatched behind them. 
	With the two's attention no longer on her, she slowly sidled away. When another man appeared in a flash, she gasped and jumped back, her bound hands brushing the ivy clinging to the stone wall around the door.
	She pushed away, her eyes on the fight as she frantically tried to reach into her pants pocket. She twisted her hands between the rough ropes, trying to wiggle out from them or at least create enough slack to reach the butterfly knife stored in her pocket, hoping she could use it to sever the rope. Her charm bracelet jingled faintly with her movements. She inhaled through her nose when it felt as if the binds tightened themselves around her wrists, eliminating what little slack she had had. With a frustrated growl, she gave up with the knife and stepped further away as the new arrival punched Kyrell in the face.
	Heart pounding in her chest--and unsure who she should be rooting for, if either of them--she backed further away, keeping the fighters in her view, looking away only long enough to search for any other means of escape. Then, the new man turned toward her.
	Jazelle’s eyes widened when he ran at her. She turned to run, but he was faster. She shouted when he rammed into her, her eyes closing for a moment as an unfamiliar sensation surrounded them and made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
	When she hit a thin carpet instead of the overgrown stone of the courtyard, the man’s weight on top of her knocked the air from her lungs and pinned her arms painfully between them. The moment his weight was off her and she could manage to inhale, she groaned as she struggled to rise to her knees, the lack of use of her arms making the action difficult. 
	She scanned her newest surroundings quickly. The glow of firelight bathed the room in a gentle, warm light. “Most. Lucid. Dream. [i]Ever,[/i]” she muttered under her breath. Noticing the man who had tackled her looking her over, she locked eyes with him, a mix of fear and caution in her gaze, daring him to come closer.
	“Who the freak are [i]you,[/i] now?” she growled. “Gandalf Junior? A Hogwarts reject?” She flinched back when he crouched in front of her, and stumbled to her feet, her hands twisting behind her. She inhaled when the ropes again felt like they had impossibly tightened slightly further, biting at her skin. She eyed the hand he offered and raised her eyebrows. “Right, offer the bound girl a hand. Very nice.”
	She glanced between him and a door in the tapestry-lined room, debating on how quickly she could make it there. She turned her attention fully to him as he introduced himself, a blank expression on her face at his introduction.
	“Great,” she interrupted, drawing out the word.
	When he finished speaking, she eyed him suspiciously, searching for any misgivings. He did not [i]look[/i] dangerous, at least. But looks could be deceiving; he could easily be worse than Kyrell, only using a different tactic. She glanced to the door again, shifted her weight uncertainly, then looked back to Sunder, weighing her options. If she made a run for it, even if she got away, she still had no means of untying herself, and no idea where she would go, let alone what awaited her on the other side of the door. With no other feasible options, she reluctantly nodded.
	“Fine,” she grumbled. Her honey-brown eyes narrowed as she warily watched his every move.