Amara was currently sitting on the edge of the oversized canopy bed, her boots still on, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. A dark, stubborn cloud hung over her brow, her lower lip pulled into a faint, defiant pout that she knew looked childish, yet she couldn't bring herself to care.
Felira moved through the room with the quiet, ghostly grace of a woman who had spent lifetimes navigating the moods of the Dravik line. She was currently occupied with a set of tall, crystal vases on the marble mantelpiece, rearranging a spray of fresh white lilies with practiced precision. She didn't speak, but the slight tilt of her head suggested she was acutely aware of the radioactive waves of irritation rolling off the girl on the bed.
