The voices came from outside the tent. Female. Multiple. The sound of boots on cobblestone and the clink of light armor.
Myra straightened. Her body, which had been hanging limp over the desk, forced itself upright. The priestess mask, cracked but functional, reassembled. She smoothed her robes. Wiped her face. Adjusted her collar.
The tent flap opened.
"Priestess Myra?" a voice called. Strong. Commanding. Familiar.
Berenga entered first. The commander of the night order, tall and thick-bodied, her massive breasts straining against her formal tunic, her dark hair pulled back in a military braid. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the tent. Found the desk. The partition. The priestess.
Behind her, Evriana. The Catorian aunt, her brown hair loose, her formal gown replaced by traveling clothes. Her brown eyes, still carrying the redness from days of crying and fucking, found Myra with an expression of mixed sympathy and amusement.
