Even after she stepped out of the carriage, Aira was still visibly rattled. She slid her hands down the front of her gown, smoothing the fabric repeatedly even though it was clear that her dress no longer needed any adjustments. The motion was automatic, driven more by nerves than necessity, as though keeping her hands busy would somehow calm the storm raging inside her chest.
Get it together, she told herself sharply. You can't look weak. Not here.
It was even harder for her to look back when she heard movement behind her, the faint sound of boots against the ground unmistakable. She didn't need to turn to know who it was. Zyren was getting out of the carriage.
Her eyes fixed stubbornly ahead, focusing on anything—everything—except him. The stone path beneath her feet, the towering walls of the mansion, the flickering torches being lit as dusk settled in. She would have already left if not for the fact that she refused to go anywhere without her mother, Selira.
