I've endured too many traps—I refuse to be foolishly framed, drained, kidnapped, or tormented by nightmares any longer. My fingers twitched at my sides, phantom pains from past betrayals crawling up my arms. I'm not Sibyl, and I owe Rui Jones nothing.
His drinking too much elf blood has invited the enormous tortures from the spell "Yo-yiu-sio-dau-loo", making him close to death. The irony wasn't lost on me—the warlock who'd orchestrated so much suffering now writhing in his own.
In my eyes, even ten thousand deaths couldn't atone for his sins. Let him rot in whatever hell would take him.
"I won't see him, much less you. Return to the Cold Palace—that's your Queen's command!"
Heather's nostrils flared, her emerald gown rustling like dried leaves as she stepped forward.
"Command?" She let out a derisive laugh. The sound grated like nails on stone. "I, Heather, reigned as Queen for a millennium. A lowly mortal like you dares command me?"
