Departure day had finally arrived.
Zaliyah stood in the center of Sylaris's nursery, watching two maids fold the last of her small clothes into a traveling chest. He had personally chosen every item—soft silks instead of wools, no fur hats, gloves, or socks, plain colors instead of anything that would draw attention, boots a size too large so she could grow into them before he saw her again.
Sylaris sat cross-legged on her bed, dressed in a sky-blue robe layered with a grey cloak, her hair braided down her back and adorned with two blue ribbons. She had insisted that morning on wearing her wooden gargoyle mask pushed up on top of her head like a crown, and had not taken it off since.
"Are you sure you don't want to bring anything else?" Zaliyah asked, latching the final buckle on the trunk.
"I already have everything," Sylaris said, patting the small satchel in her lap.
"That is a rock, Sylaris."
