The Courier
It was because of his witch mother that his instincts were his greatest defense.
They had kept him alive, season after season, decade after decade.
He knew, within seconds of meeting someone, if they could be trusted.
If they were vile or if they were decent.
Everyone had both angel and devil in them, but it was their heart that ultimately told him who they were.
It had taken him years to master the ability, through practice and trial and error.
His assessment was almost always accurate.
But now, for the first time, he couldn’t classify someone.
That immortal.
She alone would have the opportunity to strike.
And he would provide the weapon.
He wandered through a winding alley off the main thoroughfare until he reached an abandoned workshop, its weathered door flung open.
It smelled foul, as if infested by rats.
No one ever ventured near the space, he made sure of it.
He was a very good rat catcher. The courier went deeper into the workshop, navigating the overturned tables and upended chairs until he reached a scarred wooden door at the back.
He ran a light finger over the left corner until a blue symbol appeared, his witch family’s crest: a unicorn and an owl, blue stars, and a slim dagger.
The door vanished and he walked through, up the curved stone steps to his apartment.
It was all of two rooms, the walls made of plaster and stone, with a single round window covered in stained glass.
The scent of candle wax, old paper, and herbs hit his nose.
The smell always reminded him of his mother.
A wooden worktable dominated the living space.
Scattered across the surface were a marble mortar and pestle, metal instruments for measuring, scrolls, piles of codices, and pamphlets.
It was there he created spells for sale, ate his meals, and wrote letters.
They were always to the same person.
And he’d never mailed any of them.
The courier flicked his hand and blue light illuminated the various lanterns lining the shelves, as well as the small fireplace where a cauldron hung over the flames.
Apothecary bottles in all shapes, sizes, and colors crowded the space, some filled with dried herbs and others with shimmering liquids that bubbled and sparked.
Tinctures and vials were kept on the top shelf, all meticulously labeled in Latin and German, and on the ground were boxes of various powders, chimera scales, belladonna, wolfsbane, and a half dozen corked bottles filled with dragon blood.
There were scores of spells that had been blended into salves, oils, and powders, steeped, crushed, and distilled into teas and elixirs, and stored in tiny charms for customers to wear around their necks and wrists and ankles.
Witches and wizards all had a talent for magic, but their power was amplified using a crafted spell, which was why they were all taught how to make them at a young age.
But for him, spellcraft was more than a necessity; it was an art form and how he made his living.
His most popular spell, bought by his kind and other magical creatures alike, was the Volifex, which could turn thought into reality.
He went to the old leather chair propped in the corner of the room and picked up the mallet he’d left on the cushion.
It was sturdy, but slim. He’d bought it off a sculptor for a handful of coins soon after meeting the sculptress.
It was the perfect weight for her, a tool she knew how to use instinctively and with ease.
He dropped the mallet into the cauldron, then went to the shelves and gathered the necessary ingredients to turn an ordinary thing into a weapon capable of chipping away at century-old magic.
The courier would make sure Ravenna would only need to strike once.