Ayla stepped quickly to the most private and sanctified room aboard The Silver Wing. Her hands expressed her unease, wringing and rubbing her fingers in agitation. The elf moved fluidly to the innermost portion of the cabin, as far from the door as she could position herself before turned to face the captain. When the door latched, she broke the silence.

“They have sent word for me. The Guild will be on alert here. I saw the raven. The Blackthornes always use ravens. I do not know how aggressive their missive will have been, how adamant it demanded for ship manifests and passengers to be scrutinized. But I know they will have put the port on alert.”

As if adrenaline had been all that kept her afloat, Ayla collapsed into one of the chairs by the captain’s desk and clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle what might have been a sob. She glanced to Captain Church apologetically with knit brows and scared eyes.

“I— I—“ she stammered the beginning of another monologue then shook her head and buried her face in her upturned palms. Utterly lost and driven into overwhelming overdrive by the closeness of the leash she had slipped some weeks earlier, she rocked in her seat like a helpless child.

“I do not know what to do.” She confessed.