Elyra paced her moonlit chambers, the rich velvet of her gown rustling like dry leaves. Each step was a frantic beat against the silence. Her fingers trembled, pressing against the icy windowpane. The glass was cold, stark against her fevered skin.
He wasn't coming. Auren wasn't coming tonight. The conviction settled in her bones, a dread deeper than the palace dungeons. Something had gone terribly wrong. She felt it, a cold, sharp certainty.
Dhaelon. The name was a curse. He'd murdered the High Seer in Rivenmoor, a desecration that sent shivers through the court. Now, her husband, her Auren, had been sent after him. Like some glorified hound, unleashed to track a mad dog.
She didn't know who to blame more. Dhaelon for his escalating madness, the crown for their callous orders, or herself for letting Auren go. For not clinging to him, for not begging him to stay.
