Mythandur gripped the window frame, steadying himself against the tremors that resonated throughout the keep. His eyes widened at the sight below, where a crackle of energy split through the air; a rift was opening across Tolspire and the faint echo of screams rose up in a steady crescendo from the city below.

The rift widened, and in the blink of an eye had enveloped the market district. The rift was no longer a crack, but a gaping maw. Mythandur glimpsed into the rift, trying to see where it may lead, but could only see the movement of formless shapes darting around within a thick fog.

Mythandur recoiled from the window as the tower steeple hurtled past the window from above. The crooked stonework was falling apart. He turned from the window in search of an exit as the ceiling crumbled, bringing the upper floors down on him.

He tried to step forward, but his feet had left the ground. The entire tower was falling now, directly into the rift.

There was no escape.