Xavier arrived through the window like smoke given form, his dark clothing allowing him to blend seamlessly with the volcanic stone. He'd changed since the dinner—gone were the fine blue garments, replaced by practical black that wouldn't catch light or rustle against stone.
"Cozy," he observed, taking in their makeshift war council. "I'm assuming this room isn't supposed to be invisible to half the temple's detection wards."
"Ashley's doing," Margaret said. "She's creating interference."
Xavier's gaze sharpened as he studied Ashley's condition—the pale skin, the golden fractures, the way she held herself like someone fighting constant pain.
Their eyes met. For a moment, Xavier saw past the golden fractures on her skin to the exhaustion beneath—the same bone-deep weariness that stared back at him from his own reflection. It was the silent acknowledgment of survivors.
"How long can you maintain it?"
