“It’s dark roast,” Malaxus replied. “Drink.”
That was me. Laeral Thornwood. 347 years old. Pristine of robe, pure of heart, and, according to my mothers’ exasperated letters, hopelessly naive .
The Ninth Circle was cold. Not winter-cold, but betrayal-cold . The kind of cold that seeps in when a friend forgets your name. You Can-t Corrupt Me- -Tale of the Naive Elven ...
He handed me the logs. Then he whispered, “Page forty-two has a loophole that lets you keep 5% of the profits for yourself. I didn’t tell you that.”
My elven heart cracked. I did not use force. I did not use my enchanted binding words. Instead, I gave him a hug. “It’s dark roast,” Malaxus replied
“I will not partake of suffering,” I said, chin high.
I blinked. “I’m just helping people.” 347 years old
I took the logs. I did not report the loophole.