The whisper of hooves upon frost-bitten earth echoed through the stillness of the forest.
Their cold puffs of breath formed into small clouds in the icy air, and Elora drew the edges of the black cloak she wore, the cloak of Azazeal, around her.
Of course, she would never admit out loud that his presence gave her warmth.
Azazeal sat silent on the saddle, his frigid grey eyes trained forward, every detail of his face masked in the stoic, unreadable line she had come to know and dread from her time in the inn.
Not once had he made a conversation that morning, and the air between them lay heavy like the cloak around her shoulders.
She hated the way she missed his rare, disarming remarks, the ones that soothed her nerves even against her will.
She squeezed his robe tighter with her gloved fingers, turning them over a few times, watching the material slip from her fingers.
