There was a particular art to being interrupted at precisely the wrong moment, and it appeared Mara had mastered it perfectly.
The door to our private chambers burst open without even the politeness of a knock, revealing Mara disheveled, dirt-streaked, and trailing Elira, whose expression was a mixture of resignation and carefully controlled annoyance.
I paused, teacup halfway to my lips, and raised an eyebrow at my wife. Sylvithra reclined elegantly on the chaise, eyes glittering with quiet amusement. Her fingers rested on the spine of a leather-bound tome titled 1001 Ways to Politely Execute Your Rivals, a personal favorite. She sighed lightly, the sound rippling through the room like a silken threat.
"Mara, darling," Sylvithra said calmly, "unless Elyzara has managed to set the castle on fire again or perhaps summoned a small horde of undead you really should knock first."
