I sat down on the stone bench beside the altar. It was cold. Everything was cold. My qi was a dead weight in my chest, sluggish and unresponsive no matter how many times I tried to coax it awake.
My magical pouch was hanging open, the pizza box half-empty, the coffee pot, blessedly—still warm.
Henry and Joff stood at the edge of the garden, their shadows long in the firelight.
Henry was the tall one. Broad-shouldered, stern-faced, the kind of guard who looked like he'd been carved from granite and then taught to scowl.
Joff was the other one. Shorter, quicker, with a smile that had gotten him out of more trouble than it had caused, which was saying something. He was the one who'd taught me how to pick locks, how to sneak out of the tower after dark, and how to bribe kitchen staff with stolen pastries. He was also, currently, covered in soot and what looked suspiciously like dragon saliva.
