The snow whispered around them, soft and relentless.
Velra's head tilted slightly, her crimson eyes gleaming faintly in the pale moonlight. "You wear his flesh," she murmured. "Even your silence reeks of him. I can feel it in your scent."
Freedman didn't move. Every instinct screamed at him to end her right there—snuff out the last spark of life and be done with it. But curiosity held his hand. Something about her tone was too sure, too knowing.
"You're delirious," he said finally, though the words came out more defensive than he intended. "There's no king. No priesthood. My kind answers to no one."
Velra's lips curved in a faint, almost pitiful smile. "That's what you believe."
Her body shook with a quiet laugh, the sound brittle as glass. "You parasites… always so proud of your freedom. And yet you never notice the leash."
Freedman's expression—or what was left of it—darkened. A ripple of unease spread through his chest, but he forced his voice to stay steady. "What leash?"
