The Scorched Throne

XIII - Sadira

I walk at the head of our pack. I missed feeling like this; sun in my face, salt in the air. The thrill of a plan in action, even. Knowing that we're being followed, I take the shortest route to the shop possible, lest they catch up with us before it's convenient. I skip the docks we planned for entirely. Seneca hits my arm with the back of his hand. I ignore him. I lead through stone alleys and bright side streets, barely squeezing in our horses.

The city itself is breathtaking. Even on a mission, I can't help but admire everything about it. The bright bicycles rolling children down the streets. The charming clothes the people wear, from the tight leather and thick, fine fabrics of the Seafaring Guild—a very forgiving name for pirates and a few rapacious merchants—to the loose, draped, light-colored clothing most of the natives sport. Life is everywhere. A tiny blue flower sprouts from a crack in the road. A vibrant green herb garden flourishes on the roof of a nearby house. Parents smile and laugh and jog after their children. Eyes seem to twinkle. A warm blanket of comfort veils this entire place.

The shop appears, just ahead. Its storefront is marked by a worn-down sign that reads 'Jae's Rare Herbs, Concoctions, and Options.' The front window is crammed with vials of strange liquids, pots, ingredients, and just about every object imaginable related to potion-brewing—and then some, stacked precariously atop each other. One glass jar holds a liquid so dark it looks like an empty hole in space, occasionally sloshing around without being moved. Some kind of animal carcass hangs from the windowsill, a bloodred rabbit with freakishly long fur and curved horns.

"That looks lovely," I whisper to Seneca next to me, pointing at the carcass. He still looks royally pissed. "And that sign isn't much of a rhyme, either." He stays stoic, and I elbow him for it. The corner of his mouth turns upward. He looks even better in the bright, open town; his loose white tunic is rolled up to his tan, muscled forearms, and his dark hair glints in the broad sunlight. I tear my eyes away. Remember your duty, I chide myself. Protect, preserve. I do not have time for this.

A bell chimes as I push the door open. The entirety of the shop is just as crowded as the front window was. This must be the only dark, cramped space in the entire city. Stained-glass lanterns and mismatched oil lamps light the place haphazardly. I run my hand along the rough spines of books as I walk.

I can sense Seneca just behind me, steady and prepared. Most of our guards are outside, per my directions, but Maia and Evzen are behind him. They, too, have no idea what I'm planning.
Telling people about my plans is difficult, to say the least. Every scheme I come up with relies on me as the puppetmaster, controlling every aspect of it,

Chimes and pendulums hang from the ceiling, swinging on a nonexistent breeze. Above them, the dark cerulean ceiling is dotted with faded golden stars. This shop truly does feel like another world. Finally, the poison master comes out to greet us.

"Sara, how lovely to finally meet you in person! This is your husband?" Seneca reddens—the most magnificent reaction I have seen from him yet. I beam, nodding to Jae. "And you two must be Mora and Ezekiel. Hello, hello, wonderful to meet you." The man is a warlock, as I of course already knew; Maia, Evzen, and Seneca are taken by surprise, though Seneca decides to just go with his role. He wraps a strong arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. It's surprisingly comfortable, and he wraps his arm loosely enough for me to break free if I wanted to—but for some reason, I don't. You're pretending to be his wife, I tell myself. You should be touching, at least.

Jae smiles crookedly at us. He's in his late seventies, but he looks a very poor forty, as he will for a very, very long time. Witches and warlocks age like humans, then settle at a certain age.