“It has been two days now. He should be here already. Has he changed his mind? How much longer can I risk waiting”
Julea’s hand reaches up to scratch at the nape of her neck, fingers inching down between the rough threading of the thick woollen scarf, unused to the irritation against her skin. She couldn’t look any more different from her usual self. Gone are the fitted leathers with scarlet threading that push the bounds of sumptuary, and instead, she wears the clothes of a farmers daughter and a poor one at that. Even her precious blood red lined cloak is gone, having been left crumpled on the floor of the Brotherhood store room.
