Her beasts sensed the shift. The vulpine's tails stilled mid-flutter. The drake's pupils narrowed to slits, reading the tension shivering in her muscles. Raëdrithar angled one horned head toward the same dark trail and snorted, a plume of ozone flickering in his breath.
An elder stepped forward—Serain of the Evening Tide, her silver braids woven with star-shell beads. She spoke in High Elthamar, voice low, melodic. "Child of Storm, your place awaits. The winds have whispered of your return for three hundred seasons." She extended a palm in invitation. "Name your seat, and the court will shape itself around your song."
