"And you, little princess." His tone softened unnervingly, almost fond. "You've caused us quite a stir since awakening from your… coma. Something about you seems different, doesn't it? Yet you keep that happy, docile mask so well."
Her stomach dropped. 'Did they know? Did he suspect?'
She felt the phantom weight of Emily—the girl she once was—clashing against the name Evelisse, against the fragile role she played now. She forced her lips to stay sealed, her eyes wide with trembling innocence.
The messenger leaned closer, still holding Caelith's battered body aloft with invisible force. "But oh, you wear your mask well. Docile. Obedient. So very *cute.*" His voice hardened, dripping with scorn. "Stay that way. Be the lamb you pretend to be. It will make the final act all the sweeter."
His laugh cut through the air, jagged and wrong, scraping across Evelisse's nerves. She flinched, every instinct in her screaming to *run,* but her legs refused her.
