Miles crouched down, his expression cold and utterly uncompromising. The injured witch, slumped against the tree with his hands disabled, was incapable of resistance. "Who are you, I ask again?" Miles demanded, his voice a low threat. "And who sent you?"
The witch coughed, spitting blood. He tried to speak, his eyes desperate. "No one... sent us. We felt a strange magical energy… a powerful, foreign signature. We were told to kill him to eliminate the threat."
"Okay?" Miles pressed.
"I... I am a Black Witch," the man mumbled, resignation entering his voice. Miles and Cecilia exchanged a swift, meaningful glance.
"Nice to see you in person," Miles said flatly, pulling his attention back to the captive. "So, what are the White Witches up to? What is their current mission?" The man shook his head, refusing to answer.
Miles leaned in, his face inches from the witch's. "Talk, or I'll feed your body to the birds," he threatened, the casual cruelty shocking.
