One of the mages took a cautious step forward, his tall figure completely hidden beneath the heavy folds of a thick leather cloak. "We mean you no harm, Princess," he said, his voice muffled by a cloth mask. "This is purely for our safety... and yours."
Lunara's delicate nostrils flared slightly as she drew in a shallow breath. Beneath the sharp metallic tang of ink and damp chalk, she caught a subtle, distinct scent, a faint trace of mountain pine and dried boar blood unique to the northern garrisons.
"Are you one of Petra's?" she asked softly.
The masked figure froze mid-stride, his shoulders locking up tight. He didn't answer. None of them did. Recognizing that even a word could betray them to her sharp senses, the mages fell completely silent, moving back to maintain a vigilant perimeter around the glowing seal.
