Meilyn's golden eyes remained fixed on the horizon long after the last Savage Communion vehicle had vanished into the heat shimmer of the western wastes. Her cyan hair danced in the wind, each strand catching the light like spun metal, but she stood as still as carved stone. The silence that followed their departure felt heavier than the rumble of their engines had been—pregnant with unspoken implications and the bitter taste of political necessity.
I watched her profile, noting the subtle tension in her jaw, the way her fingers flexed almost imperceptibly at her sides. Even someone of Meilyn's legendary composure couldn't entirely mask the distaste of dealing with such unsavory allies. The Savage Communion represented everything the civilized realms fought against, yet politics made strange bedfellows in times of greater threats.
