The air grew even more suffocating than before. Yeara's brow lifted in confusion as her gaze locked onto his, still slightly clueless to the sharp displeasure that had crossed his features.
Her hair refused to stay in place due to the wind, blowing to the side of her face—white strands falling forward as though attempting to hide her from him, loose strands gently slapping against her cheeks.
She slowly raised her hand to push them aside, her breathing still uneven; that brief run earlier had nearly stolen the breath from her lungs.
"Mr. Teusday is our oldest goat," she spoke, as Zalthor's jaw ticked slightly before his face returned to its calmness, aware of how he had misinterpreted that for a second.
But it was not his fault, anybody would have misunderstood that. Like who gives a goat a name, and of all names, Tuesday?
