She knew it wasn’t. It didn’t take magic to know that he wasn’t doing well, but she wouldn’t be the one to point it out to him that he was obvious. Even to her, a woman that barely had ever known him. That ramrod posture, the way he held his head. It was painful to watch and yet she would allow him that dignity. It was his right not to speak of it.

Her fingers clung to his, that offer of comfort enough to keep her breathing even and help Azkadellia to maintain her composure. For now. She looked down at the table, the scrolls there, and then she looked to Cain. “I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, her voice as soft and delicate as the child she still sometimes felt she was. Her voice trembled, just as her hand did, tightening her fingers against his to try and make it stop.