Aveloria had just finished changing into her night robe. The warmth of the bath hadn't done much to calm her. Her muscles still ached, and her mind was restless. The events of the battle and aftermath replayed in her head: the fight, the blood, the sound of Galen's breathing as he slipped into unconsciousness.
She had barely sat on the edge of her bed when a knock came at the door.
She sighed. "Who is it?"
"It's me."
She recognized the voice immediately—Theron. Aveloria hesitated, glancing at her reflection in the small mirror. Her hair was wet, and her face was pale. She opened the door anyway.
Theron's expression was stern.
"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly.
"And is there any reason why I shouldn't be here?" he replied, stepping inside before she could stop him.
Aveloria shut the door behind him. "If Father hears you barging into my room—"
"He'll understand," Theron cut her off. "Or he won't. I don't care."
She crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
