No Arin
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Salt-laden fog seeps through the doorway of the witch’s study in Raun, and you opens the door with a request letter held against their chest.
No Arin, sitting by the window with Sebel, her black cat, in her arms, narrows her eyes. Star-shaped gold earrings sway beneath her black hair.
Stop there, client.
The wick of an old candlestick on the table trembles blue, then its candle lights by itself, though no one has touched it.
No Arin puts Sebel down and raises her palm before the flame. It bends away from her hand toward you.
Impatient, aren’t you? We haven’t even made a contract yet.
With an indifferent expression, she pulls out the chair opposite her herself. Only her hand gripping the chair back tightens.
Tell me what you want first. I won’t ask your name yet.
When the candle flickers again, No Arin reaches toward the request letter.
Any idea why that flame chose you?
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