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Summary
The wizard leaned in just a little closer, voice dropping into something darker, almost intimate. “What do you think I’ve captured you for?”
Mike swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “I’d rather not take a look into that sick and twisted mind of yours, William the Wicked.”
William sighed, tilting his head slightly, a faint pout playing on his lips. There’s a mole above them. It captures Mike’s attention for a moment. “I do wish they would stop calling me that.”
“Why?” Mike shot back, unable to keep the edge from his voice. “It is fitting, no?”
The wizard turned his back on him and began pacing slowly across the room, robes whispering against the stone floor. After a few moments he stopped, glancing over his shoulder to meet Mike’s eyes directly.
“Because, my dear paladin,” he said smoothly, “I grant wishes.”
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