The morning following the departure of Elric and the others was deceptive in its beauty. To any passerby, it appeared to be a morning of perfect, aristocratic peace. But within the Aldenar estate, the air felt thin, as if the oxygen itself had been sucked out of the room by the violet vacuum of Isella's teleportation gate.
Verona sat at the small, circular marble table, the steam from her tea rising in a lazy, silver curl that vanished into the high vaulted ceiling. Across from her sat Yelena, looking every bit the iron-willed matriarch in a gown of deep evergreen silk that seemed to absorb the morning light. Beside her was Isella, who looked noticeably quiet.
