Evadne
The prisoner has delicate ankles.
You could tell from how easily they snapped that she'd not spent a single day in her life on a battlefield.
Delicate wrists. Soft palms. Pale skin that bruises too easily. Too easily for war, too easily for me to look at without imagining my fingerprints there.
Voluptuous. Tall. There's a regal grace buried somewhere beneath the bruises and the incessant, maddening entitlement, and I hate that I see it. She would tower over me if she ever decided to stand, but she never does. She stays kneeling, watching me from beneath her lashes, as if she knows how easily that sight unnerves me.
I don't think Astrea Draemir quite understands the hostage situation.
I should have stopped coming days ago. Each visit has stretched longer than the last, minutes folding into hours. She's begun to look for me now, even when she pretends not to.
And I could blame it on the nuisance the castle has descended into in my cousin's absence.
