Talyra appeared like a ghost emerging from the smoke. She did not rush forward with the desperate abandon of Lily or the focused intensity of Diana; instead, she moved with a measured, almost painful restraint.
Her face was pale, her eyes—both grieving soldiers and curious survivors—darting across the crowd until they locked onto Rex.
She stood several paces away from the main circle, aware of the hundreds of eyes both grieving soldiers and curious survivors that were now fixed on the group surrounding their fallen hero.
Though she maintained a distance that suggested propriety, the panic was written in every line of her body.
Her knuckles were white where her hands remained clasped tightly in front of her, a physical manifestation of the effort she was exerting to not scream his name or throw herself into his arms.
The cost of that restraint was visible in the tightness of her jaw and the way her breath came in shallow, controlled sips.
