"Late to the party, Commander?"
"Fashionably," he shot back, unable to keep the grin from stretching his cheeks.
Behind her, Emilia urged her destrier forward—no subtle mount, this beast, but a hulking black charger that tossed its head like a furnace bellows. The red of Emilia's hair seemed almost to glow in the cold morning, matching the glint in her eyes as she hefted her greatsword across the saddle-bow.
"You mean to stare all day, or kill something?" she barked, voice carrying over the din.
Lyan's spirits chimed in unison.
(You should answer her,) Cynthia advised, half amused.
Lilith purred, (Tell her you can do both.)
