"Hello, future queen," Isabella said softly, circling her like a serpent.
"Such a pity — you look far too delicate for war."
Famoura met her gaze, unflinching. "What do you want from me?"
"Not much," Isabella replied, her smile sharpening. "Only that book. Give it to me, and I might let you breathe a little longer."
Famoura tilted her chin. "I don't know what book you're talking about."
The queen's laughter filled the chamber — cold, cruel, and echoing.
"Then rot in the dark," she hissed, turning away. "You'll beg to talk soon."
The guards dragged Famoura back to her cell — a narrow room of stone and shadows.
Chains clinked as she sat against the wall, her heartbeat loud in her ears. But through the fear, a single thought burned bright: They must never find the Crimson Book.