The laughter stopped.
It did not fade. It simply ceased, plunging the tent into a silence so absolute it felt louder than the scream that had preceded it. The sound had been a cold, echoing thing, a shard of ice in the warmth of the tent, and its absence left a ringing void.
Nyrielle stood frozen, the blood-flecked earrings digging into her palm. Cold metal. The ghost of Lady Lyra's pain. The weight of Vaeren's amusement. Her hand trembled, not from the chill of the gold, but from the heat of his gaze. It was a molten furnace, a terrible, possessive fire barely veiled by the calm mask of his face. He watched her, every flicker of her lashes, every tremor of her lips.
He took a step closer. Then another.
