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“Here he goes,” Cy said, rolling his eyes. He sat up and snatched the bag off the ground. “Quit being honorable.”

“Cold or honorable, which way will you lot take me? I urge you to make up your minds for my own sanity.”

Cy chuckled. “I’ll take you with a side of viciousness and a warm embrace each morning, how is that, my morally ambiguous friend?”

I scoffed, but fought my own grin when Cy waggled his fingers over the stolen satchel. Much like mine, Cy’s branded fingers told a saga of bonds and happiness and power.

And, again, much like mine, my friend could not recall receiving the ink of bonded brands.

While he ruffled through the satchel, I studied the markings on my fingers. The brand was beautiful and horrifying in the same breath. A saga, a future promise of power, love, and prosperity. Truth be told, they looked like marital markings. The tattoos were given when two powerful mages were betrothed.

I certainly was not betrothed and had never had a desire to take marital vows. They made little sense. Another unknown that was slowly degrading my soul.

The mage woman on the road had full markings too, and I did not know why that mattered, or why I could not forget those gilded eyes in the storm?

“What in the skies is all this?” Cy let the contents fall over the quilts and furs on my bed. He rifled through, tossing objects aside.

Gwyn sat on the corner of the mattress and lifted a curious box. No, too thin to be a box. A plaque of some kind with a cover made of . . . black glass? Gwyn tilted the strange object, then let out a shriek of surprise, dropping it on the quilts.

“It’s filled with magic. It lit up. Did you see?”

True enough, the black glass had ignited in light with an abstract painting locked inside. I touched the glass. A small sphere rotated at the front, then more numerical-looking symbols aligned in rows.

“It’s a lockbox,” I said. “See here? There must be some sort of cipher to access the magic.”

“Dark spells.” Gwyn shook her head. “Leave it be, Kage.”

“Could be useful,” said Asger.

All at once, the cipher box blared out a chirp, like a damn sky bird. I tossed it away. Gwyn fell off the edge of the bed, merely to be free of the thing.

“What is it?” Asger covered his ears.

“A trap!” Cy shouted. “Must be magically warded. Be rid of it.”

I let out a sort of growl when the aggravating chirping grew bothersome, lifted the black glass glowing box, and determined it would be best to drown it within the scented water of the washbasin in the corner.

The trill died slowly, as though choking on the fluids.

I blew out a breath. “Any cruel or dark residue?”

The others scanned the bed for hints of dark magic left behind. Spells always left their mark, one simply needed to know where to look.

Cy shook his head. “It’s clear.”

“We must’ve released it in time.” Gwyn offered the rest of the objects from the satchel a wary look. “Leave it be, Kage. She must’ve been another hexia.”

Gwyn would know, being a talented hexia mage—unmatched in potions and complicated spells—herself.

Cy shrugged and took back the satchel, peering under the flap. “I’m not convinced she is a hexia. I sense no cloaking spells to conceal anything inside her satchel. The rest looks like odds and ends. A handwritten spell book, no doubt. I cannot read this language.”

He flipped through a bound book of oddly white parchment. Like eggshells, I’d never seen it so smooth and with . . . lines to hold the words steady. There was a small tube of something gelatinous that smelled of cherries. Black bands that stretched, and crinkled pins that could very well be lockpicks. Several sturdy cards with more numerical writings and silver strips along one side.

“Ah, a portrait.” Asger studied another card of sorts. “Skies, it’s so lifelike. This is her, but she has a few tresses of sapphire hair in this portrait.”

I studied the compact portrait, made on firm parchment that did not rustle, and could fit in the palm of my hand.

The woman from the road had her face drawn in one corner. I cursed under my breath wishing I understood whatever language was written. “We’ll find a sight stone to translate these writings on the morrow.”