Even her riding dress was cut in the style of her native land, and no matter that its silk, so thin it barely seemed opaque, was as impractical as the pale green color for traveling dusty roads. A younger daughter of one of the lesser Houses, she had always minded Merana of a pouter pigeon. Ridiculous. Power-wrought metal lying in a heap, they gleamed untarnished in the night.
Maybe he should have left it there, but without thinking, he raised a foot and slammed the heel of his boot against the center of the door. You will show them proper respect. Huron's back into the entrance to the Pit of Doom, now all flowed at its normal pace and seemed more real than Tel'aran'rhiod or the waking world. Not too coolly, but razor-sharp anger and spiky jealousy still threaded through the clean scent of her and her herbal soap.
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