Larion Marendil came toward them in long strides. His cloak swayed lightly behind, untouched by the soot drifting through the air. The silver crest of the academy shone faintly at his collar. Despite the faint scorch marks on the stones, his boots were clean. He had come fast, yet looked every inch the High Preceptor—composed, grave, and certain of his purpose.
Roselys rose at once. Her hands trembled slightly as she began, "Father, I can expl—"
He lifted a hand. The motion was calm, final. Her words stopped there.
His eyes fell upon her wounds, and his pupils darkened to black. A subtle vibration rippled through the air as his hand rose toward her temple. Fingers brushed lightly against her skin, and in that touch, the gashes along her cheek sealed themselves, leaving only faint streaks of dried blood as proof they had ever been there.
