Tulip stumbled a half-step as her foot struck a knot of roots, the movement jarring Dreg and eliciting a grunt of pain from the injured ogre.
Like the fishing vessel, the moon itself was stranded. It was slotted into place at permanent midnight and crack appeared down its center—a jagged line of thickening black that Duma knew was blood. Quillton surely suspected it, as well.
The man in front of Levi lowered his palm to the flame, then lower still. Less than an inch from the candle wick, flame lapping at his flesh. Slowly, as if it were the most impressive thing in the world, the man extinguished the flame with his palm.
Looming over Isabog where she lay on the ground, Surzl glowered at her crumpled form. Stupid warlock. Ruznabiyug’s fury, she’d really done it this time.