Twenty minutes.
That was how long it had been since Veylira vanished behind the gates, heels clicking like war drums in disguise.
And not a word since.
Malvoria crouched atop the jagged ridge overlooking the citadel courtyard, her armor dark against the blackened rock, the wind tugging at the edges of her crimson cloak.
From this vantage point, she could just make out the movements near the outer gate. Guards occasionally shifted. A patrol walked the walls. But no alarm had been raised.
Not yet.
Beside her, Elysia crouched silently, her eyes sharp and unreadable. The only sign of tension in her was the faint flick of her fingers along her thigh, tapping out a pattern too subtle for anyone else to catch.
Malvoria respected the control.
She herself was less composed.
Inside, her thoughts churned like molten steel. She trusted Veylira—of course she did. Her mother had raised her to survive, to deceive when needed, to play with hearts and blades alike.
