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The magister smiles and there’s the kind of edge in it that makes your skin crawl.
“Your mage is in the city,” he says. “You know the Grand Proving Arena?”
Mae, in a tone so dry and condescending even the Archon would be insulted, says, “Of course. We’ve all been tested there.”
You haven’t—you’ve never even been inside the Proving Grounds and you’re pretty sure Tarquin won’t have been either—but you keep your mouth closed. If Maevaris wants to present a united front, or maybe wants this man to believe you’re all mages despite the obvious sword in your hand, who are you to argue?
“Now let him go,” says Ashur.
“I can’t do that,” says the magister.
“We had a deal.”
“We still do,” the magister says. “And I will release him—when you’ve proven your word. Take me and…” he pauses to look around, grim amusement on his face, “… those of my companions you’ve seen fit to leave alive to your safe house. Then you can have your bodyguard back.”