Seraphine looked at Isabella and felt the familiar pull of someone who couldn't stand watching unnecessary suffering when she had the means to address it.
The little supreme leader was standing there, visibly bracing for disaster, her hands tight at her sides, the expression of someone waiting for an execution that hadn't started yet. All because her real appearance was about to be on display in front of thousands of soldiers who'd built their image of her around a carefully maintained illusion.
Seraphine reached through the telepathic link to Leon quietly.
Cast an illusion on her. Make it something that works.
Leon, still positioned above and undetected, obliged without comment. The illusion settled over Isabella seamlessly — the tall, scarred, commanding figure that the soldiers would see, replacing the dropped cloak's work with something more refined and considerably harder to detect.
