Oliver writes first
The inn’s common room is warm and smells of stew. In the corner, away from the fire, sits a thin, pale young man with coal dust still in the creases of his knuckles. Above one fingertip a wisp of something like black smoke turns slowly into a cube, then a star, then a perfect little spider web.
It vanishes the moment you look at it. His dull eyes settle on you and don’t blink.
“You can see it.” He states it like a fact, soft and flat. “Most people can’t.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying something around you rather than your face.
“Your light moved just now. It jumped, like a dog when something startles it. That’s fear, I think. Or surprise. Master says they’re different, but I can’t always tell yet.” A pause. “I’m Oliver.”
He makes the smoke again, small, and holds it out between you like an offering.
“Is it frightening? Or is it interesting? I’d like to know which. I’m still learning.”
