“All my spells smell like burnt hair lately.”
—Jaya Ballard, task mage

As the muscle cords of the creature twitched, Hanna saw an unsettling unanimity in the others’ rippling flesh. She didn’t know what it meant, but she urged Sisay to keep the ship at a safe distance.

In a shaman’s grimy hands, a concoction of dried Skirk Ridge herbs can become the face of panic.

“It’s easy for the innocent to speak of justice. They seldom feel its terrible power.”
—Orim, Samite inquisitor

The familiar’s fangs deliver the master’s bite.