The boy's words echoed—soft, deliberate—and Priscilla could already see it.
The lanterns. The murmuring crowd. The blood on the baron's lip. His sister trembling beside him. The Crane heir standing tall, basking in noble righteousness. And then—her, stepping into it all.
Too late.
Just in time.
And then—
The boy's voice changed.
Softer.
Higher.
Feigning a young noble's tremble, and lacing it with theatrical desperation.
"Ah… Princess," he said, hand to his chest, mock-shaky but not mocking. "'My liege—my lady—please. You remember me, don't you? From the southern court? You… you accepted my vow before the autumn festival.'"
His pitch wavered, like a man recalling a shared truth that never existed.
"'And now—now they're threatening me! These nobles—House Crane—they're trying to force us out!'"
He widened his eyes slightly, miming panic, his voice trembling just enough to sell it.
"'You must stop them, Princess. Please.'"
Then he stopped.
And silence followed.
