The Duchess Appears
Sona's head whipped around in her direction, caught totally unaware. Her icy blue eyes opened wide as she asked, her voice slicing through the air,
"What? Act stupid? What are you even saying?"
Natasha didn't answer right away. Instead, she just gave Sona a long, steady look—a look that carried its own weight. It wasn't cruel, but it was pointed, the kind of gaze that peeled away defenses without needing a single word. Finally, Natasha shook her head with a small, exasperated sigh.
"You'll see," she murmured.
The sigh appeared to pull at something in Sona. Her jaw clenched, her eyes hardening in reaction. That acuteness in her eyes wasn't defiance—it was habit, the conditioned response of someone who didn't enjoy being taken around the block.
"Natasha," she insisted, her tone low but sharp-edged, "spare me the riddles. What's happening?"
Natasha shrugged and shrugged again, though her tone remained flat and measured.
