For three weeks, the silence between the warlock and the Zaliyah was louder than any blizzard.
Xulthas had retreated behind a wall of cold professionalism . He became a ghost in his own castle. If Zaliyah entered a hallway, Xulthas vanished into a shadow. If Zaliyah called his name from the balcony, Xulthas suddenly found a pressing need to inspect the outer battlements. He was a man running from a ghost, or perhaps, running from the "weird heat" that had sparked in his chest the day he painted Zaliyah's soul.
Every time Zaliyah tried to corner him-determined to ask about the sudden unnecessary distance, Xulthas would offer a clipped excuse. "The mana levels are fluctuating, I must attend to the core," or "The snow-wolves are encroaching; I have no time for chatter."
Zaliyah sat at the long dining table, picking at a plate of roasted roots and cream. He watched Xulthas's empty chair with annoyance.
