Golden Glade die with memories, not dreams

     Embry kept his mouth shut; conciliatory, if you will. When Feyre spoke he could hear the variability in her tone, just as he could feel her gaze broaching at his judgement. She had put emphasis on the yet, but he didn't need it. It was understandable that certain lengths must be taken to appear viable beneath Jhala, especially now that he was looking to embed himself within her ranks. His jaw worked as he stood there, golden mass demarcated by the waning ribbons of sunlight filtering through the trees. His mind simply would not stop gyrating, no matter how placated his outward stance implied. 

     He remained calm, even ardent, as her gaze fluttered across him; broad shoulders squared as though addressing that of a fellow commander. He could remember his father when he spoke to surrogates of the council - tall and imperious, crystalline pools limpid despite his audience. The least he could do was evince his competence. If not through rhetoric or verbal discourse, than certainly by means of sheer comportment.

     He could tell that her primacy was growing lissome, what with the sudden cloud of agitation he and Feyre must be radiating, and likewise veered from his primary course of action. Sometimes it was better to keep one's mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt. Her final sentence, in addition, was perplexing. He was curious to investigate, and often the best means of doing so was simply to listen. What better route than to wait and let the answer come to him?