Lady Isolde lay on the floor where she'd fallen, one hand pressed to her cheek, eyes wide with shock that hadn't yet crystallized into understanding. Her perfect silver hair had come loose from its pins. Her ice-blue silk was rumpled, dusty from marble.
She looked, for the first time since entering this chamber, uncertain.
The nobles stood frozen. Duchess Maren's expression had shifted from neutral observation to sharp interest. Count Lysander had gone very still, like prey hoping the predator might overlook him. The younger ladies who'd been laughing with Isolde moments ago suddenly found urgent need to examine their shoes.
Artisans pressed themselves against walls. Seamstresses clutched their measuring ribbons like talismans. Even the guards at the door seemed unsure whether to intervene or bear witness.
And Eris stood over Isolde, breathing steady, eyes burning with cold fire.
Her arm rose again.
Deliberate. Controlled. Intent clear.
