Page 32 of Silvercloak

As though Saffron wasn’t worth the effort of killing himself.

Loathing carved through her like a hot knife.

Oh, how she would enjoy destroying this mage.

The accomplice turned his wand on her, but Saffron had trained allher life for this. To adapt, to reroute, to change course between one second and the next.

“Sen ammorten,” incanted the accomplice.

Saffron threw up the mattermantic spellshield just in time.

The next two killing spells ricocheted off it, but the shield shimmered and fell.

Saints.Saff’s magical well had been drained by the blackcherry sours. A counterfeit pleasure, a trick of the light, a hat with a false bottom. She felt almost entirely depleted already.

“Sen ammort—”

She couldn’t waste her dwindling magic on the fancy boot-leaping trick, so she ducked to the ground and rolled out of the way, mind whirring as she assessed her options, as quickly and cleanly as a croupier shuffling a deck.

“I have something you want,” she said, as the hood of her black cloak fell away from her face.

“What’s that?” he asked, bored, as though used to strangers begging for their lives.

But then, upon a second glance at her, something shifted in his posture. A subtle straightening, the briefest recoil. As though he recognized her, somehow.

Saffron dismissed the thought—he couldn’t possibly.

“Information.” A sense of calm settled over Saff, her training kicking in. “I used to be a Silvercloak. I can tell you everything they have on you.”

The flicker of almost-recognition vanished, and his stone-hewn face betrayed nothing but disdain. “If the Silvercloaks had anything on us, we’d be having this conversation before our good friend the Grand Arbiter.”

He was close enough that she could smell the flamebrandy on his breath, the leather of his belt, the mint leaves and lemon zest of his soap, the unmistakable scent of warm skin. Close enough to see that though his blue eyes were a pure cerulean, there was no real light behind them.

Something essential in him had died.

“But I could—”

“And now you just gave us even more reason to dispose of you.” He shook his head, sighing,scathing,like she was a bitter disappointment, like he was terribly used to everyone being less clever than he was. “Why is a former Silvercloak sniffing around Bloodmoon territory, willingly offering themselves to us?”

“I lost everything on the roulette.” Saffron’s pulse skipped as the Bloodmoon raised his wand, her body reacting to the danger even when her mind held firm. “Went outside for some fresh air, heard the yells, and came running. Old habits.”

“Sen ammorten.”

The curse flew low and fast.

Saff rolled once more along the blood-slicked cobbles, dodging the spell.

Of course, it wouldn’tactuallykill her, but she could not allow it to strike. If the Bloodmoons knew she was immune to magic, they wouldn’t even bother to brand her. They’d slaughter her the old-fashioned way: a knife to the heart, a blade to the throat, a noose around the neck.

A scarlet crescent burned into her lifeless cheek.

The murderous Bloodmoon swung around to face her. “Sen—”

“Sen vertigloran,” she hissed, aiming at his ankles.

He didn’t dodge quickly enough, and the dizzying curse buried into his shin.

He stumbled backward but did not fall, palm pressed against the wall to right his balance.