The feeling of my magic bounding around like an excited puppy leaves me almost motion sick.
That's interesting, Grimoire says, finally breaking his silence since we started our run.
Interesting is a word for it, but right now my entire body and mind are focused on trying not to vomit. That would be an amazing way to instill confidence in everyone here. Not.
The fizzy, carbonated-soda feeling in my veins persists, which is an odd counterweight to the nausea in my belly.
My magic writhes and rebels against my attempts to contain it, like a squirrel on a heavy dose of Ritalin, but I come out on top eventually. The sensation settles deep in my gut, a constant vibration that makes my teeth ache.
"Stay close," Greg whispers, his hand steady on my elbow. He should look ridiculous with the Grand Sage on his back, but he doesn't. Just rock-solid and comforting, like he won't let anything happen to us.
