Shellia's room, normally large enough to host visiting nobles, felt painfully cramped tonight. Not because the walls had shrunk, but because six voices, two beasts, and far too many items were trying to exist in the same space.
I sat cross-legged on the edge of my bed, staring at the moonlight spilling through the tall window, lost in thought. The battle, the blessing, the looming future—everything tangled in my chest. For once, I wanted silence.
Naturally, silence was impossible.
["Shellia, you're thinking again. Your shoulders are stiff. That means you're worrying about things that don't exist yet."] Sylas' calm, frosty voice drifted like falling snow. He leaned against my bookshelf, arms crossed, his icy aura filling half the room.
["She always worries. If she didn't, she wouldn't be Shellia."] Orielle chimed in, sparks flickering like tiny fireflies from her long hair. She sat in my chair like she owned it.
