The next morning, the courtyard of the Aldenar estate felt particularly stifling, though not because of the temperature.
Verona scanned the motley assembly. It was a study in panicked contrasts. Brielle was practically vibrating, her knuckles white as she bunched the fabric of her traveling skirt in her fists, her lips moving in what looked like a silent prayer to any God that would listen. Poor Elias, however, looked significantly worse. The tailor was the color of curdled cream, staring at the ground as if he expected it to swallow him whole, which, in a way, it was about to. Behind them, Rion and Zachren stood like twin pillars of granite. If they were bothered by the prospect of being ripped through space and time, their faces didn't let on. They just watched. Waiting.
Then there was Isella.
