The blush on Lycanor's cheeks began to fade. To be sitting so close to Orion, speaking of the past—it stirred a strange, indescribable feeling within her.
To her praise, Orion remained noncommittal.
The blood elves, he had to admit, were masters of subtlety. Grand Elder Lireesa had stated their intentions, and then, after the coronation, had led her people back to the City of Blessings, leaving Lycanor behind as a deliberate, unspoken offering. They had made no demands for a formal proposal journey to their city, nor had they requested a grand wedding feast. They had simply delivered Lycanor to his doorstep.
"Are you willing to enter my tent?"
Anyone with the slightest knowledge of giant customs would understand the weight of his question. Lycanor certainly did.
She fell silent.
A slow, triumphant smile crept across Orion's lips. Sometimes, silence was acceptance. A proud woman was often a passive one, waiting to be claimed.
