Before the door swung open, Eleanor heard the approaching click of heels — crisp, impatient, as if every step was a bid for the right to be here.
Lyudmila entered the room without bothering to knock, and stood for a moment in the doorway, as if checking whether the owner of the room would notice her appearance.
She was wearing a terracotta-colored dress made of thick silk, which was distinguished by a laconic cut, but the slit on the side revealed her leg with each step. A bronze cuff bracelet glittered dully on her wrist, and a small garnet hairpin was hidden in her blond hair.
She looked bright, like a spark that was sure to become a flame soon.
"Silver rank," — Eleanor noted, feeling a slight fluctuation in power. The air next to Lyudmila seemed to have become half a degree warmer.
Noticing Eleanor, who was sitting in silence, Lyudmila smiled not kindly, but with a touch of condescension, characteristic of those who already consider themselves the master of the situation.
