"…What is it you want, black-eyed boy?"
The boy tilted his head slightly at her words, one brow lifting—not in mockery, but with an almost amused intrigue.
"You speak as if you're older than me," he murmured, voice low, smooth. "Black-eyed boy… hm. Is that the attitude of someone so young?"
He let the question hang there, a thin thread of something between jest and study.
"How peculiar."
The words brushed the air like fingers over glass—too gentle to be insulting, but too familiar to be innocent.
Then came the answer she had demanded.
Or rather—the evasion.
"As for why I did all of this…"
His eyes, bottomless and unblinking, met hers without flinching.
"Who knows?"
The silence that followed was immediate.
Deliberate.
And sharp.
Priscilla's fingers stilled.
Her shoulders squared.
And her eyes—those deep, regal eyes that had learned to burn cold when words failed—hardened.
She didn't shout.
Didn't rise.
She didn't need to.
Her presence alone shifted the air.
