And now, right in front of him, there was none of that.
There was no blue fire, burning on the raised platform of the steps. There was only an empty hole where it had once lay. Deep, and vast for the lack of it. There was no noise from the men working their strength at arms, nor twang of the bowstring. There was no hurrying of messages being delivered, no hum of conversation, no clang from their resident smith, nor muttered curses from their alchemist as another potion went wrong. Indeed, there was nothing at all, save from a single old man, in long robes, with a crow perched on his shoulder, standing at the bottom of the steps for where there had once been that blue flame.
From that old man, there was the only source of light in the place, in the form of the torch that he carried, illuminating his long white and grey beard and hair. Not a blue light, but an orange one. The same orange light he'd seen in thousands of campfires since he had left.
