The centaur stood at the old Rushyan jetty, watching the ship sail off into the sunset. There was an air of sadness and desperation all around him, for he knew that Lyra was never coming back. She would never forgive him for what he had done.
As the ship gradually became a spot in the horizon, the centaur sighed and turned back. His robes fluttered in the strong sea wind, beating against his stone left arm, the one with the curious engravings that marked him out as a member of the noble house of Rokkhans. Suddeny, these markings began to glow a faint yellow, a sure sign that danger was afoot. It was only then that he noticed the circle of haziness that had surrounded him.
The vortex closed around him and began to pull in, slowly pulling in even the planks of wood that formed the jetty. The centaur tried his best to beat it away with his stone arm but it swirled and twisted so that his arm stuck where it struck. And slowly but surely, even the rest of him folded into the centre of the vortex. ‘Pop’ and the vortex was gone.