Dust and worn leather bound books
Some older than the ancient tower
In which they were stored


A small fire crackled
Its embers ever threatening the books
Yet never quite reaching them


An old man sat in his chair
Neither awake nor asleep
But somewhere in between


There was an open book on the table
Sitting next to his the wooden chair
The lock on its cover laid open


Whispers in the dark
Swirled about the room
Strange runes illuminated in the book


The whispers grew louder
To a near audible level
Then the fire went out


But in a moment it was rekindled
Replaced by a burning eye
Of cinder and black ash