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Dawsyn senses reluctance in the mage’s tone, but she pushes a little further. “Are you the last mage in Terrsaw?”

Baltisse rolls her eyes. “No. But you will not find the others.”

“Why?”

“They do not want to be found,” she says simply, and offers no more. The words are defensive.

Dawsyn does not dare delve deeper. But still, perhaps another line of questioning? Dawsyn finds her interest piqued, her curiosity unending. She knows very little of the mage after all. “You once told me that my ancestors saved you. Is that true?”

Baltisse grins wryly. “Is this an inquisition?”

Dawsyn shrugs. “Something of the sort, but you needn’t answer if you wish to guard it.”

Baltisse chuckles mirthlessly. “My history is no secret, Dawsyn,” she says, and takes a seat, readying to tell the tale. “When the Sabars took the throne in Terrsaw, witch hunting was outlawed.”

“I thought you were rather more than a witch.”

“I am your worst fucking nightmare,” she says, and when Dawsyn becomes entranced once more by Baltisse’s stare, she believes it. Something primitive tells her that Baltisse could squash Dawsyn’s entire existence between her fingers with a single thought.

“What happened to the mages before the Sabars reigned?” Dawsyn asks now.

Baltisse’s eyes turn cloudy. “Burned, mostly. It is… difficult to kill a mage. But not impossible. My mother was thrown into the ocean with her fingers cut off and her feet tied to a stone. I still remember it clearly. Terrsaw celebrated for days at having finally thwarted her.”

Dawsyn’s throat tightens, cloying with anger. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. She was an awful woman. Truly a thing of wickedness.”

Dawsyn is brought up short. “How old were you?”

“Old enough to give her whereabouts to some very skilled witch hunters.”

Further questions die on Dawsyn’s lips. What a thing to do, to rid the world of your own mother?

“Though, still young enough,” the mage continues, unperturbed, “that I could not gather the courage to kill her myself.” Baltisse turns away then, finally releasing the grip on Dawsyn’s stare. “I’ve since rectified that.”

Dawsyn stays silent for a long time, her thoughts a maelstrom that Baltisse can likely hear. There is one particular question, however, that rises to the surface.

“Yes,” says Baltisse quietly, still turned away, her hands leaning against the bench.

“Yes… what?”

“You want to know if I hated her. My mother. The answer is yes.”

Dawsyn nods, and bites back the urge to ask why.

Then, unbidden, “I loved her too, though,” she says, and a perceptible weight befalls the mage’s shoulders.

It is a strange thing, to be so filled with loss and heartbreak and wrath, all for the same person.

Warily, Dawsyn brings another question to mind.

This time, she sees when Baltisse hears it. The muscles in her neck tighten. Her shoulders tense. “No, I do not hate Terrsaw.”

Not the answer Dawsyn expected. The mage has been outcasted. Vilified. Dawsyn could understand a hatred of the kingdom. It would be justified.Expected, even.

“But… they tried to hunt your kind intoextinction,” Dawsyn states, as though Baltisse need be reminded of her own story.

“Many years ago, yes. But not now.”