The clink of the chalice sounded like a sharpening edge. The room drew a deep breath, as if all the nobility within needed to recalibrate at those words. Duke Armand was the first to regain his composure—and the first to smile again, but with a narrower, less condescending smile.
"You speak with the lightness of someone who knows death firsthand, Lady Deathstriker," he said, shrugging. "Or fears it."
Ester didn't look away. "I know her. And I don't fear her. Countess Wykes doesn't send messengers to play diplomacy, Duke. She sends them to shatter the illusions of those who think they can shape destinies with promises and jewels."
Some of those present grumbled; the clerical advisor pressed his fingers against the fabric of his tunic. Damon, for his part, smirked, amused by the small social storm that was gathering. There was something—a quiet electricity—in the way Ester spoke the words: not theatrical, but inescapable.
