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armor shone in the eternally dying sun of this world, and as they topped the rise they let out a bellow that rocked the ground beneath them.
    The soldiers around him let out a cry of their own, and as the green creatures closed the distance between the hill they let out volley after volley of red-fletched arrows. The front line of the monstrous creatures stumbled and fell, and were immediately trampled by those who came behind. Another volley
    and another rank of the inhuman monsters toppled, yet their failing was subsumed by the advancing tide of the mass that followed.
    To Khadgar’s right there were flashes as lightning danced along the surface of the earth, and the monstrosities screamed as the flesh was boiled from their bones. Khadgar thought of the warrior-mage commander, but also realized that these bolts only thinned the charging hordes by the merest fraction.
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    And then the green-fleshed monstrosities were on top of them, the wave of ebon and jade smashing against the rude palisade. The felled timbers were no more than twigs in the path of this storm, and
    Khadgar could feel the line buckle. One of the soldiers nearest him toppled, impaled by a great dark spear. In the warrior’s place there was a nightmare of green flesh and black armor, howling as it swept down upon him.
    Despite himself, Khadgar backed two steps, then turned to run.
    And almost slammed into Moroes, who was standing in the archway.
    “You,” wheezed Moroes calmly, “were late. Might have gotten lost.”
    Khadgar wheeled again in place, and saw that behind him was not a world of crimson skies and green monstrosities, but an abandoned sitting room, its fireplace empty and its chairs covered with drop cloths.
    The air smelled of dust only recently disturbed.
    “I was…” gasped Khadgar. “I saw…I was…”
    “Misplaced?” suggested Moroes.
    Khadgar gulped, looked about, then nodded mutely.
    “Late supper is ready,” groaned Moroes. “Don’t get misplaced, again, now.”
    And the dark-clad servant turned and glided quietly out of the room.
    Khadgar took one last look at the dead-end passage he had stumbled into. There were no mystic archways or magical doorways. The vision (if vision it was) had ended with a suddenness only to be equaled by its beginning.
    There were no soldiers. No creatures with green flesh. No army about to collapse. There was only a memory that scared Khadgar to his core. It was real. It had felt real. It had felt true.
    It was not the monsters or the bloodshed that had frightened him. It was the mage-warrior, the snow-haired commander that seemed to be able to see him. That seemed to have looked into the heart of him, and found him wanting.
    And worst of all, the white-bearded figure in armor and robes had Khadgar’s eyes. The face was aged, the hair snow-white, the manner powerful, yet the commander had the same eyes that Khadgar had seen in the untarnished mirror just moments (lifetimes?) before.
    Khadgar left the sitting room, and wondered if it would not be too late to get a set of blinders.
    Three
    Settling In
    We’ll start you off slow,” said the elder wizard from across the table. “Take stock of the library.
    Figure out how you are going to organize it.”
    Khadgar nodded over the porridge and sausages. The bulk of the breakfast conversation was about
    Dalaran in general. What was popular in Dalaran and what were the fashions in Lordaeron. What they were arguing about in the halls of the Kirin Tor. Khadgar mentioned that the current philosophical question when he left was whether when you created a flame by magic, you called it into being or summoned it from some parallel existence.
    Medivh huffed over his breakfast. “Fools. They wouldn’t know an alternate dimension if it came up and bit them on the….So what do you think?”
    “I think…” And Khadgar, suddenly realizing he was once again on the spot. “I think that it may be something else entirely.”
    “Excellent,” said