I have never trusted my own footsteps as much as I did on the walk to the Glass Pavilion. Which is ironic, because I could feel my knees clicking like poorly-tuned castanets with every step. The dawn air smelled of dew-damp roses and fresh panic; inside my chest, hope rattled against fear like dice in a gambler's cup.
Velka strode at my side, quiet but unflinching. Her palm clasped mine cool, steady, a silent mantra of you've got this. Behind us came our unlikely entourage: Elira, brisk as a sword stroke; Mara, bouncing on her toes as though she expected treats at the finish line; Riven with three notebooks, two quills, and the haunted look of a man poised to record either diplomacy or disaster; and, trailing them, my siblings. Aeris waved her "GOOD LUCK" banner so vigorously I feared a wrist sprain; Arion brandished his flour-dusted croissant-sword at invisible enemies.
