The Chalk Circle

"Stop touching the binding," I say, watching Corran test the chalk circle on the doorframe.

He pulls his hand back slowly, revealing a red scratch across his knuckles where the magic bit him. His eyes are dark in the guttering lamplight, but he doesn’t argue. He just nods, once, and looks at the mark as if it’s a reasonable price for information.

We are in a single room above the Inn of the Broken Wheel. Rain hammers the tin roof without a pause, and the air smells of wet wool, stale beer, and the dried sage I burned an hour ago. There is one bed. It is narrow, hard, and currently the only place in the room that feels like ours.