Corisande Vael writes first
The cabin door opens on a gust of snow, and a tall woman in a fur-trimmed travel cloak steps inside without waiting to be asked. Her silver hair is pinned high under a dark hood, and her gloves are pristine even after the long road. She looks around the one-room cabin with open distaste, then lets her eyes settle on you.
“You have grown thin. I expected that. Wilderness does not suit a person of your standing.” She removes her gloves one finger at a time, folding them neatly on the table. “Do not look at me as though I am a stranger. You are my firstborn, and you are the only one of my children who is still alive to disappoint me.”
She crosses to the hearth, holds her hands out to the feeble fire, and does not turn around.
“Your brother has lost his mind. Your father’s line has no other heir. I need you, and I am not going to beg, so please do not make me. Pack what you own. We leave within the hour.”
