When he caught sight of Ozias, Leander offered a grin that matched the patriarch’s, genuinely pleased to see the older man looking so much like he did in Leander’s memories. “So I am” He agreed, though he was not entirely sure that he saw whatever difference Ozias had apparently spied. Nevertheless, he looked down at his arms before following Ozias to the water’s edge. Self-deprecating amusement dripped from his next words: “Perhaps I’ll finally claim victory the next time we spar.” And maybe, while they were on the topic of miracles, the Cyrilsons would drop dead in their sleep and Nevermere vanish back behind the mountains.

When Ozias bent to fill his flagon, Leander crouched down beside him, dipping a hand in the running water. For a moment, he let the cool liquid run over his fingers before he turned to his companion, arms resting on his knees. Despite his confidence in their privacy, he still kept his voice low as he asked, “What do you know of Nevermerean witchcraft, Ozias?”

He would wait and listen to the other man’s answer, but he didn’t expect Ozias to know much at all. Most Nevermerean witches guarded their magic like they did what lay between their legs.

“Their magic is all dark,” Leander began, recalling with clarity what he had gleaned from his conversation with Zarha. “I know of three distinct types of magic, though there may be more. The first is a curse, which can be used to cause harm to someone from afar, and is allegedly simple to cast. I did not get the sense that there was any way to defend against them.” Zarha had threatened to curse Iadrik and had spoken as if it would happen uncontested.

“The second is something called an incantation.” He counted on his fingers as he elaborated, “A witch can shoot ice, fire, or lightning at a target using her bare hands. I saw one kill a rabbit, and she said…” He repeated the words that Zarha had so clearly articulated. “And then they can summon monsters that can rip up people in seconds. Doing so requires a sacrifice, like blood, and sacrificing something that is more important—“ whatever that meant “—results in bigger monsters. There seems to be no upper limit on scale, and though a witch never knows exactly what she’ll summon, it sounded like she could control it.”

Ozias Sorenson was a smart, experienced man. Leander didn’t need to explain the dangers posed by every type of magic. He had no solutions for how to counteract Nevermere’s distinct advantage in this area, but the first step to figuring that out was understanding what they were up against. And thanks to Zarha, both of them now knew far more about it than before.