“Let me look at your shoulder. Don't be afraid of me."

“Witch, can I have a minute?” says Svartalf.

"Can't you see that I'm busy?" I answer irritably.

The mermaid keeps watching us with her moonstone eyes, “Women usually don't like mermaids.”

“Maybe because creatures like you take husbands away from families, get pregnant, and swim away?” says elfia strictly.

“Relax, virgin nun. How else do you think mermaids can breed? They don't have males."

“It seems that only human males peck at mermaid charms.”

“Pffff, well, you know better, babe. You are clearly a big expert in human male specious... just like your mother...” Take that! You are not the only one, dear bastard, who can touch a raw nerve.

Svartalf juts her chin, clenching the fists.

“What's wrong, dove? Did I hurt your feelings?” I coo, showing her my crooked smile, then I finally turn to the mermaid who looks very surprised, “Could you move your hand this way? No? The wound seems old, but it has not regenerated properly, festered a little... No doubt, this is not your habitat. The water in the lake is not suitable for mermaids. How did you survive here?”

“I occasionally managed to catch fish or Imor would bring me some food in secret from the elves...”

Svartalf gasps, “What did you just say? Repeat immediately!” she rushes to us, but I stick my arm the palm facing out towards her (a classic gesture of any sorcerer before starting a strong spell). She stops looking at me with hatred: I have no doubt that she knows about it.

“You will have to wait, the world expert in human males, first I need to tend to the wound for this lady.” I turn to the mermaid with a smile.

“You are really different, kind like him,” says the mermaid.

“Uhm, thanks,” I say. I absolutely do not want to know who this 'he' is. Ideally, it would be worth preparing a potion and casting a spell over the wound, but all my potions are now with the thief who stole my horse. When we were climbing the mountain, I saw a lot of healing herbs and lichens, but we moved quickly, and I did not want to linger in order to gather some plants. Now I regret it, since the top of the mountain is pretty bold.

I gently touch the wound with my palm, sending energy into her shoulder. This usually helps with simple non-serious wounds, scratches or minor burns. Although, sorcerers get sick, grow old, and die like the rest of mortals, one huge bonus of being a witch is the regenerative process inside us that is so strong that wounds and scratches heal quickly; we age very slowly, and we live a very long time (unless, of course, we are devoured by a werewolf or another rival sorcerer inflicts his curse).

The mermaid breathes a sigh of relief when she feels better. The wound must have been spoiling her life. Of course, the full recovery is still far away, but my energy has launched a positive process.

“My name is Lodda,” she says, touching her long hair. "What's your name?"

“Crow,” I say almost croaking. I clear my throat, feeling stupid.

“Something inside is telling me it’s not your real name.”

“Only my teacher and... one dear person could call my name.”

"This is the right decision. Names tell everyone who we are. You shouldn't uncover it for someone you don't trust. This nickname is good for you; I like crows. Once I was able to catch one: it was very tasty...”

I hear elfia moaning in disgust. I muffle a laugh. Elfia is on tenterhooks, while I on purpose is milking the moment avoiding the most important topic.

“I have nothing here but a seashell necklace (the only thing that reminds me of my home), but I'm ready to thank you in any possible way...” she looks up at me through the lashes. Her moonstone eyes are beaconing me. And they say mermaid charms only work on men!

“Deal.” I bite my lower lip, unable to hide my sly smile.