The blade stopped an inch from Valerian's throat, its razor edge catching the moonlight in a cold, merciless glint.
A bead of sweat slid down his neck, chilling his skin as he locked eyes with the woman kneeling before him. Her violet irises gleamed with predatory amusement, her lips curling into a wicked smirk. The black armor she wore clung to her like a second skin, accentuating every curve, every lethal angle. The curved dagger in her hand shimmered with a faint green sheen—poison, no doubt, brewed to kill with a single nick.
"Just checking," Selka Vale purred, her voice a velvet blade. "Your reflexes are still sharp, Lord Valerian."
"Assassinating me would've been a very short job," Valerian muttered, his tone dry but edged with steel. His heart still pounded, though he'd never admit it.
