"I had to be perfect," Isabella said one last time, her voice softer now as her fingers busied themselves, adjusting the balance stone—a wide, flat slab of sun-smoothed stone with a shallow bowl carved into the center, perfect for measuring by weight and feel.
Ophelia said nothing.
The clearing fell quiet, the air thick with unsaid things. In the distance, a windbeast howled low through the trees, and the rustle of leaves became the only sound that dared remain.
Isabella moved like clockwork, untouched by the silence. She reached for a dew-horn flask—carved from the horn of a mist antelope, its sides smooth and warm from the sun—and tilted it, narrowing her eyes at the liquid sloshing within. Her lips pressed into a firm line. Not a single strand of her hair was out of place. Her back remained straight, jaw tight. Every motion careful, rehearsed.
