The Duchess Waits
Nova was the only person in the Blackthorn mansion courtyard. The stone she walked on was cold with the remaining nip of morning, but she did not notice. Her gaze—cool, green, unyielding—was directed at the sky overhead. Wind stirred her black hair, pulled high in a smooth ponytail, and every strand gleamed as it danced behind her like a warrior's standard.
Behind her, the courtyard pulsed with silent tension. Guards stood at attention, straight backs, watchful eyes. The moment their lady had emerged from the mansion, all men had stiffened into watchfulness, anticipating her word. Even the perimeter guards had stopped in their tracks, turning to face on their heels and stand at stiff attention. Their eyes never left Nova, as if her presence alone commanded compliance.
