Enara rolled her eyes, but some stubborn part of her wondered what she would say if she dared, if she could. It was easier to glare, to distance herself, to be the wronged queen-in-training with dignity and just the right amount of tragic heartbreak. That was how things were supposed to go, wasn't it? Someone had to keep up appearances.
The sword in her hand felt heavier now. Or perhaps her heart did. She swung again at the dummy an old practice model so battered it was more patchwork than original and imagined, just for a wicked instant, that its head was crowned with silver hair and wore an expression halfway between a smirk and an apology.
The door banged open with the kind of force only Daena could manage. Enara didn't turn immediately. She recognized that entrance the way one recognizes the first rumble of an approaching thunderstorm.
