Enara watched from the high gallery, arms folded, eyes narrowed, chin resting on the windowsill as if she were a decorative gargoyle installed purely to monitor the progress of redemption and, by extension, the proximity of traitors to annoyingly cheerful human heroes.
The morning was blindingly bright, the kind of optimistic sunshine she resented on principle, and the castle courtyard teemed with life and restoration.
Hammers struck, voices sang, magic flickered except, notably, for the figure at the center of it all, laboring without a scrap of spellwork, sweat darkening her collar, eyes set with that particular flavor of stubbornness only Liria had ever possessed.
And Kael of course was beside her. The man had the unshakable persistence of mildew, always reappearing, uninvited, in places he didn't strictly belong. He was helping Liria lift stones, offering encouragement, smiling as if forgiveness were a matter of polite conversation and mutual back pain.
