Priscilla stood there in the quiet corridor, the echo of Lucien's footsteps still lingering like an aftertaste of venom.
Her hand remained clenched at her side—tightly, violently—until her knuckles turned white beneath the satin of her glove. The pain in her shoulder pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, but it wasn't the ache that consumed her.
It was the helplessness.
The indignity of being touched—branded—by someone who wore cruelty like a crown and called it authority.
She couldn't strike him.
She couldn't speak against him.
Not here.
Not yet.
Her lips parted, but no breath came.
And then—
Soft footsteps.
A faint rustle of fabric.
"Your Highness," Idena said gently, voice low as she approached, eyes flicking to Priscilla's stiff posture. "Are you—"
"I'm fine," Priscilla said before the question could finish.
Too quickly.
Too sharp.
Idena said nothing more, but her gaze lingered at the shoulder Lucien had gripped, her brow subtly furrowing.
