"You were ignored because you predict robes will be catastrophically inappropriate for every climate, including indoors," Aeron said.
"Indoors has drafts. Drafts are a climate."
Fin exhaled. Slow. Controlled. The exhale of a man whose instincts were already tingling because he recognized the way Serena's body was angling toward the edge and the angling was producing a dread in his chest that was pre-verbal and post-rational.
Clouds stretched beneath the volcano in a thick white sprawl, a canopy so dense it looked solid from above, as if you could walk on it, which you absolutely could not, and the could-not was the kind of lesson this sky would teach with enthusiasm and zero mercy.
The air was hot. Sulfuric. Carrying the specific warmth of a place that existed near active magma and had opinions about visitors.
