The wind at the ridge shifted as two figures emerged from the mist.
Vaelora von Iskandar walked at the front, her silver hair streaked with darker strands, the sharp ice-blue of her eyes cutting through the haze. Even here, high among the mountains, she carried herself like a commander striding across a battlefield—every step measured, her presence enough to silence the air around her. Her reputation had not been built on warmth. It had been forged on respect, cold and unyielding.
Behind her loomed Albrecht Thorne, implacable, towering in silence. His figure radiated authority, the kind that bent others without a word. He was not a man who bowed, nor one who softened.
Selene straightened as her mother approached, her posture disciplined but her gaze flat, tinged with disgust she did not bother to hide. Vaelora's eyes flickered briefly over her daughter, lingering, softening for only a heartbeat before her tone struck with practiced control.
