His women came off the crest.
Ayame came first. The katana stayed at her hip and her arms had finally uncrossed, and she descended the slope without hurry. The rest fell in behind her.
Down on the road, Quinlan still had Sera folded into his chest. Sylvaris Vaelorith stood with her hand at her collarbone and her gaze fixed on her daughter. She had nearly spoken more than once since Seraphiel had leapt off the crest, meaning to do what she had always done in public: rein her in, remind her that the heir of the clan did not climb her man like a tree in front of the high houses of the nation.
Yet she had not done it.
For the first time in her daughter's life, she had not done it.
A warm, enormous pride had moved into her chest instead, and had filled every place the reprimand usually sat. By every standard she had raised Seraphiel under, it had no business being there. It was there anyway.
