Cassandra enters the stable with Melora (the now-empty cart sitting elsewhere until she needs it again) and goes still at the sight of someone else. She had hoped that it would be empty, so she could settle Melora and leave without bothering anyone. The wings don’t faze her in the slightest, she barely gives them a glance. A winged man isn’t the strangest thing she’s seen; there are winged beings in Exandria. Perhaps there are here, as well, although she doubts it – he strikes her as someone who had arrived from elsewhere – or he’s from a world that does.

It’s too easy to huff a soft laugh and nod. The practiced ease of pretending to be all right. “Of course,” she replies, even though it couldn’t be farther from the truth. She trusts very little, these days.