Priscilla said nothing.
She stood there, marble-still beneath the arching terrace, the flame-shaped pendant at her throat catching the lanternlight with every shallow breath. Her posture did not falter. Her blade-sharp voice did not return. Her guards were frozen in a half-drawn motion, still awaiting her command.
But her eyes—those deep, regal crimson eyes—remained fixed on the boy who now stood at the very edge of her silence.
And inside?
Her thoughts were louder than war drums.
Who are you?
It wasn't the first time someone had spoken boldly before her. She had heard silver-tongued flatterers, poison-laced courtiers, and self-righteous nobles preach to her of loyalty, tradition, and obedience. All of them dripped venom beneath the veil of manners.
But none of them ever looked at her like this.
Not with fear. Not with contempt.
But with knowledge.
As if he saw through the title.
As if the crown at her brow were a thing easily set aside.
As if— he'd met her before.
