CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The wind whispers secrets through the timeworn buildings of Golden Paw, tousling my blonde hair and chilling my skin despite the sun. I stare at the parchment in Ford's hand, the one he said an old woman gave him last night. The handwriting is scrawled and almost illegible, but one word jumps out at me clear as crystal – mage.
"Skye, this could be it," Ford says, his voice low but threaded with a hope that hasn't touched us in moons.
I look up into his green eyes, seeing the worry lines that have etched themselves into his brow over the past year. "A mage who can break curses?" My voice betrays my skepticism. We've chased too many rumors, sought too many false prophets.
"An actual mage," he insists, tapping the parchment. "Not a charlatan peddling potions and empty
