Trum finished his words and looked down at Cassandra, waiting for the facade to crack. He expected tears, trembling, or at least a flicker of the terror that was consuming his nephew.
However, contrary to his expectations, Cassandra didn't tremble. She didn't pale. She didn't beg.
Instead, she looked at him.
It was a look of pure, unadulterated disgust, as if she were staring at a pile of rotting garbage rather than a powerful noble.
"I thought you were better than that trash," she muttered, tilting her head slightly toward the cowering Ronald. "But it seems like you are even worse than him. At least he is simply stupid. You? You are vile."
She scoffed, a sharp, cutting sound in the damp room.
"And let me correct you on one thing. I don't rely on the Virellia name. And I certainly don't rely on the whims of that Crown Prince."
She leaned back against the hard wood of the chair, her posture regally defiant despite the ropes binding her.
"I rely on myself. And..."
