Donovan—
Philosophers believe our souls cross the astral plane on the way to birth and after death. Today’s journey, however, led us to more prosaic places – a high-tech facility in the desert.
I followed his magic’s burnt-plastic scent through blinding white corridors. My cloaking spell got us past security guards and scientists, until we reached a door with an optical sensor lock. My unlock spell failed. But it did melt the knob.
Small victories.
We entered an empty, white-tiled room. The stench of his magic flowed beneath a door opposite. We crept inside a room with odd, rippling walls.
The door slammed shut behind us. The dark was complete. And then the walls glowed orange.
Heat lamps, Donovan. Heat lamps.
It happened so fast, it was all I could do to remain upright. My magic drained in sweaty rivulets down my face and back. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t spellcast.
Brigitte managed to knock down the door, freeing us. Stone gargoyles come in handy for more than mail.
-Riga
