"I'm just asking. You don't seem to have many thoughts of your own, so I assumed the Crown Prince must've lent you some."
Elara's eyes widened, her pulse spiking. The girls' faces twisted in unison, fury blotting out the practiced smiles.
Priscilla's lips thinned. She drew herself up, the faint lift of a chin that tried—vainly—to make the space between her and the girls look like choice, not cage.
"You think you can break me with words?" she said, voice low and iron-threaded. "You think names and lineage decide me? I—"
Her sentence hit the stone and broke. The braid girl didn't wait for the rest.
A blow of mana snapped from the taller girl's palm—clean, practiced, meant to unbalance rather than maim. It struck Priscilla across the ribs in a controlled, ugly bloom of force. The princess doubled, a small, involuntary sound tearing past her lips. Her hand flew to her side, fingers curling against fabric that was already starting to crease where bone met muscle.
