Born of Ash and Night
She removes one black-gloved hand and extends it toward the fire—not touching, never touching.
“Maereth of the Broken Vale,” she says, voice steady despite the weight behind it. “Witch. Guardian. Thief. Liar.”
A faint, sad smile curves her mouth.
“Friend.”
Something in my chest cracks.
“She stole from you,” I say hoarsely, remembering.
The queen huffs softly. “Repeatedly.”
Cain blinks. “You let her live.”
“I let her win,” the queen corrects. “More than once.”
Her eyes lift to me then, sharp and assessing—but warm beneath it.
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