Millbrook appeared below them.
The town was glowing. Every lamp — every iron-wrought post, every vessel of the night — was lit. The amber glow washed over the cobblestone streets like warm honey. The town was alive — people moving through the streets, adventurers heading toward the dungeon, merchants closing their shops for the evening, the organized, peaceful, 'civilization-is-working' activity of a town that had been built right.
Mira descended. She didn't land at the gates. She didn't approach from the road. She simply dropped from the sky — straight down, her bare feet touching the cobblestone path in front of the lord's manor. The guards at the gate saw her. Their eyes went wide. Their mistress. Naked. Descending from the sky. Covered in — they squinted — was that dried milk on her stomach?
They looked away. Immediately. Professionally. The guards of Millbrook had learned — through months of exposure to their lord's household — that some things were better left unobserved.
