One of the many underappreciated benefits of exile is that you don't get physically assaulted by your adoptive demon grandmother within five minutes of arriving anywhere. Unfortunately, the reverse is also true. Because just as I crossed the threshold of the great hall, the universe or perhaps the part of it devoted to poetic justice delivered Daena directly into my path.
She did not look pleased. Her horns, those great curling monuments to maternal wrath, were tipped with a fresh polish and her eyes glowed with that specific shade of violet reserved for family disappointments.
"Liria," she growled, voice rolling over me like a thunderclap.
"Grandmother," I replied, careful to keep my hands visible and my posture meek. "It's lovely to see you. You're looking terrifying as ever."
She didn't bother with a reply. She just well, moved. One moment, I was upright and unpunched, and the next, the world was a dizzying kaleidoscope of floor, ceiling, and demon muscle.
