I froze. What the hell? Did I just…
Slowly, I turned.
Darius stood a few feet away, dusting off his hands like he'd simply stepped through a casual doorway instead of ripping through a witch-warded teleportation fold.
"How—"
He grinned, smug and infuriating. "You think you're the only one who knows how to bend space? I'm old, Sage. You think your little witch spells are enough to bar me?"
I didn't like the way he said my name—soft, certain, like he'd peeled back the mask I wore and seen the real skin underneath.
And Saints, I was so tired of him. Tired of his existence. Tired of his inconvenient intelligence, his ancient instincts, his ability to smell the lies I kept buried.
"How old are you anyway?!" I hissed, gritting my teeth. How can one person annoy you so much?
He shrugged. "A hundred and thirty… not much truly. I'm still a youngling in the age of my people."
My mouth fell open. A hundred and thirty? And he called himself a teenager? What then was their lifespan?
