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Summary
Sorceresses were supposed to be evil.
“Elysabeth?” Belladonna asked, folding her hands over her knee, watching the flickering campfire before her with grave intent. She should be the merciless tyrant of her own country by now, and yet here she was … sleeping in the wilderness. Like a common peasant.
“Yes, my Lady?” Ser Elysabeth the Gold, formerly of the Holy See, recently turned Dark Knight under Belladonna's employ, looked up from her whetstone.
“This is all your fault,” Belladonna shot Elysabeth a scowl. “I’m sure of it.” To emphasize her point, Belladonna flicked her fingers at the fire, making it spark ominously.