Behind the mask of Lazira, Lorraine smirked. To see her father, the great Hadrian Arvand, patriarch of the Great House of Arvand, kneeling in chains before her, filth clinging to his robes, soothed something raw in her heart. Only a little, but enough.
If she had the skill, she would immortalize this moment in paint: the mighty minister, humbled in the muck of commoners. How delicious. Perhaps that was why he never fostered her love for art. Perhaps, deep down, he foresaw this day, and feared she might one day capture him like this—broken, diminished, brought low by the very daughter he discarded. Perhaps, he was the true oracle among them both.
Her hand drifted unconsciously to her belly. The torches sputtered, and their light struck her eyes so they shimmered like shards of glass. He couldn't see her, not truly. The mask hid her face, the shadows cloaked the rest. Even without it, he would not recognize her. Not now.
