GREYSON
Instead of answering me, the seer gestured toward the small table. And it was only then that I noticed the tea. The same foul-smelling, murky liquid sat in two cups, steam curling lazily into the air, and my stomach churned at the scent, but I didn’t hesitate.
I crossed the distance in two strides, grabbed the cup, and threw it back in one gulp. It slithered all the way down, slimy as hell. But I barely tasted it before falling into the chair opposite her, my chest still heaving.
The seer sat down across from me with infuriating calm as she lifted her cup. “Yes,” she said at last. “And no.” My head snapped up. “What does that mean?”
Her gaze dropped to her tea, and she dipped her finger into the cup and began to move it in lazy circles, as though stirring something invisible.
