There is an old beast-kin proverb that says you can measure the true strength of a Warlord not by how tightly he holds his weapons, but by how easily he opens his hands to let something go.
Standing on the edge of the sprawling coastal cliffs behind the manor, Lucien was currently failing that test entirely.
The afternoon wind was strong and crisp, whipping off the ocean and creating massive, invisible pillars of upward drafts. It was the perfect weather for an avian beast-kin.
Juni stood barefoot in the golden sea-grass, about ten yards away from the cliff's edge. She was wearing a flexible, light tunic and leggings that Primrose had tailored specifically for aerodynamic movement. Her eyes were closed, her face tilted up toward the sun, and her magnificent snow-white and silver-tipped wings were fully extended, catching the salt-heavy breeze.
She looked radiant. She looked entirely at peace.
Lucien, on the other hand, looked like he was preparing for a siege.
