"I have news," Draven said. His voice felt flatter down here, the tunnels swallowing resonance, leaving only the blade-edge of the words.
Lirael folded her arms, fingertips brushing the hidden dagger beneath her sleeve. "If this is another promise to save me, spare yourself," she answered, steady but low. A wry breath escaped her. "I am no longer fragile."
The declaration rang true; she carried a contained fury now, as if every humiliation had been hammered into armor beneath her skin. Draven inclined his head a fraction, accepting the correction. No flicker of surprise touched his eyes—they were steady, violet crystals that measured rather than emoted.
"Auric plans to present you during the solstice ritual, two days hence," he said. "He wants a spectacle—your will splintered before the high court. Their cheers will seal his narrative."
