“A chime sings in the column of azure crystal. Glances exchanged. A whisper, the curve of a smile. The amber glint in plump, dark red lips.”
Hinrich smells of the road: faint wood and oil-traces laced by sweat and a certain something I’ll name manhood. He’s warm, and close.
“Then,” I press against him, “I want you to look. And I want you to see.”
“It is just in time for an echo of startling in the nearest silhouette as we round the same corner, and collide with each other.”
“I declare without shame that I am neither a channel of the gods nor a mage of the academies. I am a witch of the old ways reclaimed.”