With the gentle pattering of the rain echoing around them and off the slightly vaulted roof, Elayra’s eyes narrowed when Ghent questioned her order. She gave something between a growl and a sigh.
	“Basically?” she replied curtly. “Yep.” She glanced up to the shield, now unneeded beneath the protection of the pavilion.
	Looking from it, she let her mental hold over it and the magic drop. Without her will to command the magic to take form, the shield burst into a glittering, dusty film that vanished in the span of a blink. 
	Elayra uncrossed her arms and rested her left hand leisurely on the hilt of her sword, her intense gaze returning to Ghent.
	“You’re Hatter Madrail’s son. The only ones remaining of the Vinifcium--a race of powerful sorcerers and fighters,” she elaborated with an irritated air, trying to answer an inevitable question before he could ask it to save time. “In [i]theory,[/i]” she spat the detested word, “you’ve inherited their connection to magic. And that’s what we need. But you [i]didn’t even believe[/i] in magic until yesterday!” She snorted, throwing a hand in the air exasperatedly and again wondering what kind of world taught that there was no such thing as magic.
	“So.” She took a threatening step toward Ghent and crossed her arms once more over her chest. “Mouth and eyes closed. We’re going to see if you get along with the magic here.”