Midnight Crown
Command rolled off her—undeniable, cold, the kind that bent men without asking.
The Widow.
The room tightened.
Talia froze, breath locked. Heller pressed against the wall, a man awaiting judgment. Even the chaos outside—the boots, the shouting—faded for her.
Domenik didn’t move.
But every muscle was tight, coiled for violence, ready to claim or destroy.
The Widow’s eyes swept the room, passing over him without acknowledgment—going straight to Eirwen. Not the guns, not the blood. Her.
“Hello,” the Widow said, voice calm as a blade. “Little ghost.”
Bab Populer