Evening lights filtered through the high windows of Ravensdale's great hall, catching on the last traces of blood that had not yet been scrubbed from the marble. The cots were mostly empty now. Tomas slept fitfully but steadily, his breathing no longer ragged. The other three affected servants sat propped against the wall, pale and weak, but alive.
Aria stood in the center of the hall, sleeves rolled up, green eyes sharp with exhaustion and resolve. Her golden hair was pulled back in a practical knot, strands escaping to frame a face that looked older than it had the night before.
