The wind over the academy's plateau was cold. Not sharp. Just steady, the kind of chill that snuck under the edges of cloaks and reminded people to head inside after sunset.
Luneth Silverleaf didn't.
She stood near the edge of the high outer terrace, one boot planted on the railing, arms folded, braid pulled tight over her shoulder like a silver ribbon against her coat.
She wasn't brooding. Not exactly.
She was thinking.
Which, for her, usually looked the same.
'He should've told me more.'
She hated guessing. Hated waiting even more. Lindarion had said he'd return, said there were things he had to deal with first. She hadn't pushed.
But he was out there alone. Again.
And she didn't like the feeling sitting in her stomach.
"You're not going to jump, are you?"
The voice came from behind her, dry, slow, familiar in the way old rugs were familiar: always there, always slightly askew.
She didn't turn. "Sylric."
