Lirae's wrist stayed firmly in the older elf's grasp, but her body remained rooted exactly where she stood as unmoving as a mountain.
"Grandmother," she said with impeccable politeness, "please let go."
The old woman tugged again, indignant. "Don't be ridiculous, child. We are leaving. You are clearly tainted and not in your right mind."
Lirae tilted her head. "Grandmother," she repeated, a little firmer, "let go. I am not tainted nor am I muddled in the head."
"Then what are you?" Another voice cut in, stern, heavy, authoritative.
A tall elf approached, his posture rigid enough to shame statues. His robes were embroidered with moons and branches, each thread glowing faintly with ancestral mana. His jaw was carved into a permanent look of disapproval.
Beside him stood a woman equally regal, her expression cold and assessing, as though she had been waiting her entire life for Lirae to "cause trouble."
