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A tight smile fastened on his lips. “Of course.” He turned and poured tea into two cups, handing her one. “Milk or sugar?”

“Milk, please.”

He gave a nod and turned again to retrieve the porcelain mug with milk. Quickly, she took the vial of truth elixir out of her pocket and poured its contents into the Primemage’s tea.

“My time is precious, Miss Winters,” he said as he faced her and added milk to her tea. “I hope you didn’t come here to waste it.” He took a seat.

Mira’s hands trembled when she lifted the teacup, and she hoped it wasn’t noticeable. Feeling for the strands of Dark Magic again, they were firmly in her grip.

“I know what Rakkley wants and how you can lure him in.”

Corvin looked bored, not believing she had something valuable to tell him. “And that would be?”

“Me.”

“And why would he be after you?”

She rolled up her sleeve until her scar was visible. “Because six years ago I made the mistake of touching a Synth victim. Not long enough to die, but long enough to suffer the consequences. Now it runs in my veins, and he wants it back.”

The Primemage’s glassy eyes widened, scanning the tendrils of her scar that had carved along her skin. Even when she pulled down her sleeve, his gaze remained on her arm.

“Fascinating,” he finally said, and leaned back. The old metal joints of his chair squealed in response. “That is why he arrived at your friend’s party. It had nothing to do with the other Casters; he came for you.”

“Yes.”

He slurped his tea so loudly, it made her eye twitch.

“This is a marvelous development indeed. After all these years and tireless efforts from the council, we have finally found the last dose of Synth and it’s trapped within your magic.”

She gave a nod, imagining how Aidric would scream at her right now. This information in the Primemage’s hands was dangerous.

Corvin smiled, walked over to a small cabinet, and pulled a vial filled with black liquid from its shelves. “In times of war, we all get tested.” Mira stared at the Primemage’s leather shoes, which seemed to have been patched up several times to varying degrees of success. “Are you ready to become a hero, Miss Winters?” He placed the vial on the desk in front of her, and now she could tell its contents. The black liquid had a slight yellow sheen to it. It went by many names, but most knew it simply as death serum.

She stared up at him, seeking confirmation in his expression that he wanted her to poison herself. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Oh, I think you do. You can end Synth once and for all.” His fingers locked on her shoulder. “Your sacrifice would save thousands of lives. I will make sure the history books will laud your name.”

“You think I care about history books?”

He shrugged. “You signed your death certificate the moment you entered this room. Now you get to decide which way you will be remembered—as a hero or as a traitor.”

“I am not going to drink your poison, Primemage.”

He smiled. “Very well. I was hoping the Caster part in you would help you see reason, but I see you’re a true Wielder.”

“And what are you? Asking me to commit suicide is certainly not the trait of a Caster.”

“It is. One life for thousands. Every rational person would make the same choice. But Wielders aren’t logical. They are a self-centered bunch. Very well.”

“Are you rationalizing murder now?”

A grin spread across his face. “Oh, but I am not the one who is going to kill you.”

The meaning behind his words sunk in, and she felt a rush of horror.

He lifted his hand, and she heard the door lock.

“I am not a Wielder,” he continued, and turned to stare out the crooked window. “But as Primemage, I have to make tough decisions.”