Malvoria stood in the middle of the corridor, jaw tight, hands half-curled at her sides, staring at the heavy doors that had just closed behind Elysia and her father.
Thalor hadn't looked pleased. No—furious was more like it. That barely masked tension in his shoulders, the way he looked at Elysia like she was some fragile artifact he'd lost and just recovered… or worse, a weapon aimed somewhere unfamiliar.
There'd been no affection in his tone. Just sharpness. Guarded frustration.
Malvoria didn't like it.
She hadn't liked it from the second he appeared.
She shifted, took one step forward, and was ready to follow them, consequences be damned, when a hand settled on her shoulder.
"Let him," said a familiar voice, soft but firm. "I don't think he'll harm his own daughter."
Malvoria turned her head slightly. Veylira's pale eyes held hers with the ease of someone who'd already anticipated every possible outcome.
