Why anyone needed this much space, he couldn’t say, but the room screamed conceit. A large self-portrait hung above a sweeping fireplace, drawing the eye. Mirrors dotted the walls, positioned for the best effect to catch and throw back a glimpse of their master. Bronze sculptures or statues, intent on duplicating the white mage’s attributes in some way, littered the tabletops and desk. Unlike Andris’s living quarters, which boasted its owner’s refined grace and subtle workings, Trek liked flashy and extravagant. “White Mage,” Andris said with a slight bow. Trek demanded formalities: bowing, titles, and often whimpering from those who reported to him. Those that reported to him… That concept was beginning to rankle. Trek was blind to his surroundings, unorganized, and completely unable to lead. Andris had not only found him, trained him, and shown him the underbelly of magic working, but he’d put the sniveling fool into his position.
