Elysia slammed the door open so hard that it bounced off the wall and nearly hit her on the rebound.
Malvoria blinked from behind her desk, one brow rising as the room seemed to fill with a sudden, invisible thunderstorm. A breeze of wrath, wild and unruly, accompanied Elysia inside like an angry spirit too proud to knock.
She looked like she was mid-eruption. Her hair, still a bit damp from earlier, had frizzed around the edges, strands clinging to her temples.
Her cloak flared dramatically behind her like a banner of war, and her boots stomped across the polished obsidian floor with enough force to make the vases on the bookshelves tremble.
Malvoria did not move.
Mostly because she wasn't sure if this was an argument she had to be in or if she'd just been conscripted into the role of emotional support furniture.
