Page 96 of Poison Sun

I don’t ask.

I’d rather try the possibly drugged stew than confess to hearing voices in the wind that are telling me to kill Blaze.

“You know about our quest?” I ask instead.

She raises an eyebrow in amusement. “I assume you’re not simply popping by for a social call?”

Even though I know to remain on guard, I find myself relaxing at her attempted humor.

“No.” Blaze holds her gaze, as focused as ever. “We’re here because you have something that belongs to me.”

She doesn’t flinch.

She just picks up her bowl, uses the ladle to serve herself some stew, and sits across from us.

“It’s safe.” She motions to our untouched bowls. “Although, I understand your caution.”

She uses her spoon to take her first sip, as if demonstrating it’s harmless.

I don’t budge. After all, she had served Blaze's and my stew before we entered. There’s no way of knowing it came from the same batch she took hers from just now.

I’m relieved when Blaze also doesn’t give in.

“The Crimson Quill,” he continues, not allowing her to veer us off topic. “It belongs to my ancestors. You’ve been holding onto it for centuries, to keep it safe. Now, I’ve come to bring it back home with me, where it belongs.”

I have to admit—I’m impressed by his confidence. It sounds like he’s been searching for the quill for ages. I never would have guessed that a few days ago, he wanted nothing to do with magic at all.

“Yes.” The witch sits back, interested. “I’ve heard of it.”

“You have it.” He says it as a statement—not a question.

“Perhaps,” she muses, studying him, trying to figure him out. “You’re a scripter? From the Bloodscript line?”

“I am,” he confirms.

“Wonderful.” She smiles, continuing to observe him. “Show me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to show me your magic.”

He glances around the room, knitting his brows together, contemplating what to do.

“Recludam,” I say simply, bringing his attention to me. “The unlock spell. You told me about it when we were stuck in the storm. Use it on one of those boxes over there.” I point to the chests along the wall, then look back to the witch. “They’re locked?”

“They are,” she confirms.

“Perfect.” I focus on Blaze again and hold his fiery gaze, waiting for him to get started.

Thankfully, it’s not hate I find in his eyes.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was gratitude.

Finally, standing with movements both fluid and sure, he approaches the treasure chests. As he walks, the flames in the hearth dance higher. I’m not sure if the fire’s reacting to my anticipation, or to his, or to us both.

After a few seconds of hesitation, he kneels before the chest on the left, his back facing me and Langwerda.

Without a word, he takes out his penknife and brings it in front of him.

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