Her eyes snapped open.
They were not Yuri's eyes.
There was no warmth in them.
No spark.
No mischief.
Only cold, sharpened purpose—like a blade honed so finely it forgot it was once metal.
Even the blue iris's of her eyes were ringed with a simple silver as if proving her own self was contained within that silver.
Her body jerked against the restraints immediately, the sound of iron wires tightening around leather echoing sharply in the small cell.
She inhaled sharply, as if waking in the middle of a battlefield rather than a quiet stone room.
Her gaze locked on me.
No recognition.
No hesitation.
Just judgment.
"Impure…" she rasped, voice hoarse from unconsciousness yet striking with the clarity of a church bell. "Release me."
"Yuri." I said her name gently, as if the softness itself might pry open a crack in Saint Joan's armor.
Nothing.
The light in her eyes narrowed—calculating, predatory.
Her fingers tensed, knuckles whitening as she tested the restraints.
