nt from the others," she said, voice low, probing.
"Observation noted," Draven replied, standing. He slid the stiletto away, twin sabers resting comfortably in his grip.
Serewyn's gaze lingered on the runes etched along the blades. Recognition dawned—these were weapons forged outside the slaver network, wrought for ghost-work, not arena showmanship. "Who sends you?" she pressed.
"Someone who needs Ironleaf to burn brighter," he answered. "Long enough for chains elsewhere to loosen."
The tension in her shoulders eased no more than a fraction; still, she could taste sincerity—or perhaps simply saw opportunity. She tilted her head. "Yet you free me. Not them." A nod toward the ceiling, where distant clamor sounded.
"Timing," Draven said. Then, softer, "And optics. The elves have to see thunder break before they believe the sky can change."
Serewyn's lips curved, equal parts admiration and cruelty. "Then let me be thunder."
