The first time I saw her, she was throwing her slender arms around a weeping willow tree, a dryad in her forest kingdom. Auburn strands of silky hair coiled about her head. I took a step, and she was gone.

The second time, she saw me, too. We stood, gazing at each other, her dark eyes brimming with curiosity. Her hair was no longer copper, coal-black in its profusion, pouring in torrents down to her waist. A smile began to grow, dimpling the corners of her milk-white lips, warming her face ‘til it felt like spring had defied winter at last.

       It was evening of the next day. Adelaide was restless. She could not forget the visible strength of the man who had saved her. It frightened her. Never had she seen a soldier of such built and such serious demeanor. Revocatus, assuredly, possessed grave features, but his presence bore warmth. And Lawrence was gentler and his gravity came from something deeper within him. She dreaded the meeting that was to occur that night.

 The Last Lion of Aziza.