Caldan walked out. Didn't even look back. The heavy oak door of his chambers swung shut with a soft thud that echoed like a final verdict. Arin was left alone, in the wreckage of his anger, still vibrating with the strange, raw energy of his healing magic. The broken vase, the splintered chair, the lamp lying on its side – silent testament to a fury barely contained.
She moved slowly, her body still stiff, but the searing pain was gone. A faint ache lingered, a ghost of her injuries. She found a fresh tunic in Caldan's wardrobe, black and soft, smelling faintly of his scent – smoke, something sharp, and a hint of parchment. It was far too large, swallowing her slender frame, but she didn't care. She pulled it on, letting the oversized sleeves hang past her hands, a shield against the sudden chill in the air.
