Beatrice's POV
There it was.
Beatrice studied Morwen closely now, noting the tension at the corners of her eyes, the way her magic sat too tightly beneath her skin.
"You didn't plan for this," Beatrice said.
Morwen did not deny it.
"We planned for resistance," she said. "For conflict. Even for failure."
"But not for absence," Beatrice finished. "Not for Aurora to vanish without resolution."
Morwen's gaze sharpened. "You sound pleased."
"I sound observant," Beatrice corrected. "There's a difference."
The High Witch circled slowly, boots whispering against stone. "You were placed in the dungeon because you were compromised. Your father's influence…"
"Is gone," Beatrice cut in. "Burned out of me piece by piece while you congratulated yourselves on restraint."
Morwen stopped.
"You're still dangerous," she said.
Beatrice met her gaze without flinching. "No. I'm useful."
The word landed.
Morwen exhaled slowly. "You were never meant to rot," she admitted.
