The young Questor looked around his opulent cell in the West Wing and sighed.

I almost lost my mind, too. I demolished a classroom and nearly killed Magemaster Crohn. Instead of killing myself, I ended up with a Guild Ring and a comfortable cell.

Grimm raised an imaginary glass. Here's to you, Erek Garan. Wherever you are, I hope you found peace.

He had to admit that his current accommodation was a far cry from the dismal cell he had occupied as a Charity Student. The food was much better, too. Nonetheless, Grimm found little pleasure in this new, easy life. He had sworn on his soul to redeem his besmirched family name, and he could only begin that onerous process by proving his worth to the Guild. His beloved grandfather, Loras Afelnor had once been a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, a man at the peak of his calling: a man with Guild honours and great wealth gained from numerous glorious Quests. Then, he had thrown it all away by attempting to kill the sick, doddering Prelate of the House. Although Grimm felt sure his grandfather had acted out of compassion for a suffering man, Loras' deed had resulted in disgrace and his expulsion from the Guild, stripped of his powers. Now, the old man scraped out a basic living as a blacksmith in the village of Lower Frunstock.

Grimm's world had been stricken to the core when he had first learned of Loras' former life on his first day as a Student in the House, nearly ten years before. After his Acclamation, he had been given leave to visit Lower Frunstock, and he had given Loras his solemn oath: "I will make the name of Afelnor shine again in the Guild, Granfer. I swear it."

The young Questor laughed, although there was no humour in the hacking sound. He thought of Loras, sweating and straining in the smithy, and of his own, almost sybaritic life. A true Mage Questor, an avatar of magical power, should be on the road, fighting tyrants and monsters, not lounging in a comfortable chamber!