Several tendrils of dark, twisted sorcery snaked their way toward the knights, lords, and ladies on Lady Ashlynn's side of the Great Hall. They were drawn to the wide, wooden cuff on Lady Ragna's wrist, carved in the shape of an oak leaf curling back on itself, or the buttons on the tunics of two of Wes Iriso's knights, yet none of these dark tendrils ever reached their targets.
As soon as the tendrils approached within a dozen paces of their would-be victims, they dissipated like smoke. Those with the sharpest of eyes and enough presence of mind to pay attention glimpsed a faint shape in the smoke, as if the tendril had been swatted away by an evergreen bough before it dissipated entirely.
At the center of the Blackwell retinue, Isabell stood up from her seat, her silvery eyes shining brightly behind her spectacles as she pushed back against the darkness.
