booker

Christa's hair was different again — shorter this time, tousled in a way that framed her face like she'd just rolled out of someone's bed. She probably had. Volo noticed the second she walked up, the

Christa sank into the sea of pillows on her bed, the room a chaotic atlas of escape. Maps of forgotten realms—crinkled parchments charting elven forests and Martian canals—plastered the walls, interru