“Mische!” A booming voice rang out behind me. Mische’s eyes widened, lips parted. I felt, in my own heart, the cold spell fall over hers. I whirled around. A towering man wearing Nightborn finery stood before us. Dark red hair fell to his shoulders, its messiness standing in stark contrast to the neatness of his clothing. His stance was rigid, and the sheer intensity of his emotions—a knot of shock and anger and breathtaking relief—were so intense that they burst from his mind without me even having to reach for them. I stepped in front of Mische, wary. Finally, she managed a single word:
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