The outburst had been terrifying, but the reason behind it was far worse. Witches did not simply speak — they shaped reality, weaving incantations from mere words. Their proclamations were threads binding all that was natural, especially when they promised, declared, or willed. Even when they just spoke in Teh, an exchange with a witch was never casual; it was an outspoken waver against fate.
“Let us rest and treat our wounded for one night,” the ker pressed forward. “She will remain in a secluded room of your choosing, warded, as you see fit, and away from the guild’s common areas. We will ensure of this.”
“Let us in,” the borman growled, impatience grinding through his words. “I carry the injured.”
He was taller than Tirran, imposing even for his own kind, but there was a weariness in his stance, the burdens of travel. He bore the heaviest load of supplies by far, and also the two unmoving figures bundled in his arms. His grunting grew harsher, his breath steaming in heavy, uneven bursts.
“Her promises carry no weight,” Tirran replied. “Her origins and intentions do not matter. She must leave. Now.”
The witch’s eyes darted between Tirran and Imbiad. The white bird on her arm mimicked her movements, its golden eyes darting from one guard to another just like hers, unblinking. Simultaneously, both their gazes shifted to the beastkin.
A low, rumbling growl rolled from his throat, building from a shiver to a snarl. His lips peeled back, revealing sharp teeth glistening with condensation, breath steaming through his fangs. “You let us die at your doorstep?”
Tirran’s frantic eyes twisted and turned in their sockets, ever restless like angry insects trapped in a jar, smashing themselves against the glass in never-ending fits, before suddenly, they snapped still and fixed on the beastkin.
“I let you die?” he repeated, drawing out the words like he was discerning each syllable. Yu heard many, many things in them, but not a question.
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