Page 181 of The Edge of Darkness

I looked up at him, immediately resonating with that statement.

Damn it. One point in his favor.

The weight of the weapon felt good in my hands. Heavy, but well-balanced, the way a proper sword should be. “Who makes the weapons on Neveshir?”

“We do.”

“You? As in . . . the Dionachs?”

“Sometimes the witches, too.”

“You have a forge?”

“Three.”

My hands fell still. How the hell were there three forges on Neveshir?

“Some witches are skilled in alchemy,” Silas explained. “It’s a trade that is passed down to each generation out of necessity. Forging our own weapons is crucial, especially with our seclusion. It’s something all Dionachs learn at a young age as well. If given the proper resources, I could fashion you a weapon right here, if you wanted me to.”

“Did your kind always forge weapons? Even on Skotos?”

To my surprise, it was Nivelle that answered from where she stood on the other side of Silas. “No.” She kept her stare on the fire dancers that weaved through the crowd. “We adapted in order to survive.” Before Silas or I could say anything else, she stalked off.

Remic stepped into her place, frowning at the overage of drinks he now carried. “Guess one of you gets two of these.”

I snagged two of the four mugs he carried. “Don’t mind if I do,” I said, downing half of one in a single gulp.

He handed another mug to Silas and reserved the last for himself. After taking a sip, he coughed and shook his head. “Vanir’s finest.”

Silas took a drink and did the same. “Gods, what is this stuff made of?”

I let out a laugh. “No one knows.”

“It’s . . . strong,” Silas said.

“That’s the point.” I knocked my mug against his, then Remic’s. “Let’s play a game, shall we?”

“What game?” Remic asked, sounding more curious than I expected him to be.

“It’s not a game that you play to win. It’s one where you try not to lose.”

Remic stared at me. “They’re the same thing.”

“Whatever. But trust me, the goal is to avoid losing.”

He sighed and shook his head like I was insane. “What is the game, Roirdan?”

“Simple: out-drink the others. The first one to stop drinking, loses.”

“What happens to the loser?” Silas asked.

“The loser has to wear a dress to the next Lumeri.”

“Fuck,” Remic swore under his breath.

Silas hesitated, but a slight grin tugged at the edge of his mouth. He wasn’t one to turn away from a challenge—that much was apparent. He lifted his ale in agreement.

“I’m nearly two drinks ahead of you both. Three, including this one, so that gives you an advantage,” I said. “No small sips or abnormally long breaks between refills. Got it?”