The Bitten Queen
another answered.
A pause.
Then, quieter—closer now, almost thoughtful:
“Look at the wounds.”
Fabric shifted. Hands moved—not rough, not gentle either. Efficient. Her sleeve was pulled back just enough to expose torn flesh beneath, the bite marks jagged and deep, edges darkened with drying blood.
One of them exhaled softly. Not shock. Recognition.
“That’s not clean.”
“No,” the second voice agreed. “It’s not controlled.”
“Unstable?”
“Has to be.”
Bab Populer