I looked at Devlin for support. He was sitting in the same chair, leaning back and stretching his legs. The mage remained silent, arms folded across his chest, but no disapproval was felt. “Go on,” dark terracotta eyes told me, lashes quivering a little.

- Do you want to offer something to the Duke?

- Yes.

- What?

- I can't tell. May I have some water?

Apparently, the conversation wore him down. I handed him a glass, and he took it with pink bare fingers with sharp, tenacious milky-white claws, and I remembered again, the Shaman warned that I would supposedly do him a favor. So is it worth...