Sylvia remained in the shadows behind the throne, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Her gaze never left Seraphina, and her ears sharpened at every word. Her breath quiet. Heart steady.
She hoped Lorraine—Lazira—wouldn't falter now.
Seraphina needed to be crushed, not pitied. A queen doesn't preserve what dares to rot from within.
"It was not my intention, Milady…" Seraphina stammered, her voice trembling like a fraying thread. "I… I fell in love."
Lazira didn't move. Not even a twitch. The velvet cloak behind her stilled like a curtain before an execution.
"Love?" she said finally, the word laced with such precise disgust it might as well have been a curse. "With a man who has yet to pay me?"
Her voice cut sharper than a blade drawn in silence.
The dungeon, already thick with damp and dread, seemed to contract with the cruelty of the words. The torchlight flickered. A rat scurried. Even the walls recoiled.
