In his room, Crowlin sat in his bed and stared out the window. Now bereft of the many layers of robes and cloaks he usually wore, his skinny, birdlike frame was visible in the way his shift fell across his body. Myrrdin, done with hunting himself breakfast, jumped up onto Crowlin’s desk.
“Of what are you thinking?” he inquired.
Crowlin didn’t take his eyes off the sky outside the window. “I’m the only one of the Instructory staff that survived. Usually the headmaster chooses his successor, but in the event of an unforeseen death or deaths, the mantle of headmaster is passed down to the instructor of the highest rank. With all the other professors dead, the mantle of headmaster falls to me.”
“A heavy responsibility.” Myrrdin agreed. “The Instructory is the most highly regarded educational institution in Aylodae, and mage knights are only trained at the Instructory. The headmaster is, in part, responsible for the safety of the entire region.”
Crowlin drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “I don’t know if they’ll let me be headmaster. It’s not a position I desire. I never thought I’d be headmaster, and I reasoned that if I ever was, it was something that would occur well into my grey years. If the Arcanis Council decides not to bestow the mantle on me, I’m fine by it. But if they do insist that I take up the headmaster’s mantle, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“As I have in years past, I will be at your side to offer you my wisdom, no matter your vocation.” Myrrdin promised. “And if it does happen that they wish you to be headmaster, and that you accept the mantle, I will aid you as best I can.”
Crowlin smiled. “Thank you, Myrrdin.”