Maelor needed thirty seconds. He got exactly thirty seconds. The door opened on thirty-one, and the Crown Prince of Drakenfell stood in the frame.
Alaric checked his pocket watch. "Thirty-one."
Hyran held out his hand. Alaric dropped five gold into it without looking up.
"I bet twenty," Hyran said.
"I bet forty-five. We were both generous."
Maelor was still hunched over Serena, both palms pressed to her temples, emerald light pouring from his hands in dense, concentrated streams. His nose was bleeding, twin lines of red tracking from both nostrils to his upper lip, and the intensity of his focus had drawn every line on his face into sharp relief.
Alaric held out a handkerchief. Maelor looked at it. Looked at the sleeve he'd already ruined. Took the handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket without using it.
"New cloak is up," he said. "She will remain unconscious for several hours from the venom. When she wakes, the cloak will be active."
"How long will it hold?" Dex asked.
