Startling, Semras spun to look straight at Inquisitor Velten. His face hovered close, far too close, and she could see in detail the sharp angle of his cheeks, the line of his strong jawline, and those damn piercing eyes. A single black strand fell onto his forehead, an outlier to his otherwise perfectly coiffed hair.
She hadn’t heard him approach her at all. Had he not spoken, she would have been none the wiser.
A shiver ran down her spine. He could have attacked and taken her by surprise in such close quarters; she’d have been defenceless.
“… When could I have spied on you?” Semras asked, swallowing back her nervousness. “I was way too far to listen in. You saw me check my garden, didn’t you?”
His smile grew colder. “Ah … I had a hunch, but now I know for sure. You are lying. You did spy on me.”
Howdid he know?
“I don’t have time for your tall tales, Inquisitor. I have bags to remake, so if you’ll excuse me …” Semras turned away.
A hand slammed over her mouth. Sounds of indignation spilled out of her throat, but his firm fingers over her lips kept them too muffled to reach anyone. Wide-eyed, she struggled only to stumble back into the frame of the inquisitor. His arms caged her in. Her bags fell onto the muddy leaves.
Semras rammed her elbows into his ribs, but the inquisitor only dragged her back against him. Taller than her by a full head, his frame swallowed hers easily, immobilizing her, trapping her. Her rage couldn’t break through his strength.
“Shhh, witch,” he said. “Did you think an inquisitor would not know the tricks of your people? You wove magic to spy on me, and I have very little patience for eavesdroppers. From now on, you will weave magic no more. I forbid it. I do not want to heara single spell coming out of that pretty little mouth, do you hear me?”
Semras bit into the hand that muffled her, only for her teeth to meet leather—his damn glove protected him.
“You may refuse my request, of course, in which case I shall gag you and shackle your hands. The trip might be more entertaining for me this way, but I would rather not have to order one of my knights to watch over you at all times.” He chuckled darkly against her ear. “I have a feeling you would find a way out of even cold iron shackles. Now, I will remove my hand, and you will say, ‘Yes, my lord.’”
Semras did not say, ‘Yes, my lord.’
She screamed.
“How dare you!” Lifting her chin up, she glowered at him. “Get your hands off me! Get off! I’ll hex you!”
Inquisitor Velten returned his hand over her mouth and hummed. “We will have to try that again. You are not good at following orders, are you?”
Her glare could have killed him.
Further away, a group of sword-bearers turned their attention toward the commotion. Semras’ eyes pleaded at them for help, but they only observed from afar, glancing at each other. Close by, the young knight—Themas, was it?—watched the scene, a motionless figure amidst waves of men and beasts. From afar, she couldn’t guess his expression.
The voice of Inquisitor Velten reappeared at her ear, intimately close. “They will not help you. At every turn, they are wondering just how dangerous you are, if the tales about your people are true, and if they should kill you before you kill them.” His voice lowered to a drawl. “Remember, witch, that you now travel with men used to watching your kind burn on the pyre. Look at them.”
He grabbed her jaw, forcing her to watch the sword-bearers. Tears of frustration and humiliation welled in her eyes, but she refused to shed them. She’d rather die than let the inquisitor know how much he scared her right now. With her arms restrained, there was no way she could weave magic to free herself from his grasp. He knew it as well—he knew exactly how to render a witch helpless.
“Magic will trigger them,” he said, loosening his grip on her jaw. His fingers trailed down to her throat. “They do not understand it, and what they do not understand, they will destroy. I will protect you, as per our deal, but these men will grow nervous each time you unsettle them. They could turn into a mob that even I could not stop at the slightest provocation. Do you understand now?”
His words made sense but wounded her pride. The hand on her mouth retreated, and she held back tears of frustration. “… Yes,” she breathed.
“We will have to work on you addressing me properly and respectfully, but this shall do for now. I am releasing you, witch. Do not fall. It would be a shame to dirty your pretty dress. You look so lovely in it.”
He let her go, and Semras stumbled forward. Spinning to face the inquisitor, she dug her nails into her palms to stop herself from hexing him. She so dearly wished to, but the awful man was right: the sword-bearers kept watching, waiting for her next move. She had to behave, if only for the sake of the witch sister that needed her help.
Instead, Semras dusted anger and hate off her dress.
Arms crossed over his chest, Inquisitor Velten waited calmly for her to be done. He was muscular, and she intensely regretted not noticing earlier the physical threat he posed to her.
Some inquisitors, acting as the ecclesiastical investigators they pretended to be, worked in the shadows and used specialists likeVenator knights to do their dirty work. Others openly acted like the executioners they truly were, wielding weapons in their fight against so-called heresies.
By the look of his toned body, Inquisitor Velten was one of those favouring their might.
She must have thrown him a particularly hateful glare, for his eyes brightened and his smirk widened. “Something to say, witch?”
That irritated her. “You know my name. Use it.”
