Zeporah shrugged one shoulder. “This?”
She swept her hair aside, the necklace glinting against her skin, neckline dipping lower with the motion. Her voice dripped silk.
“You always did miss playing Casqadia’s consort.”
Storne went rigid.
For a moment, he thought his composure might crack beneath the weight of her game. Then he leaned in, lips brushing her ear, his words a quiet blade.
“I only miss my wife.”
She tilted her head, the faintest twitch betraying her.
“You’ve come all this way only to glower at me? How tedious, Masten.”
Her hand ghosted across her collarbone, a slow trail toward the pendant nestled there.
Cassandra’s pendant.
For a breath, he saw Cassandra again—her laughter against stone vines, the balcony they once dared together.
Zeporah’s hand snapped him back—nails grazing the muscle of his arm.
“Why are you here,” she murmured, “truly?”
Storne’s answer cut through the chamber like an arrow loosed.
“Raif Tassen,” he said at once. “Tell me again how he died.”
Zeporah’s smile faltered.
The water behind her rippled as if stirred by her pulse.
“His fool’s heart burst,” she said flatly. “The Endowment burned him out. Divine power wasted on a cur of a man.”
Storne’s mouth twitched.
“You speak sweetly of your dead husband.”
Her eyes glittered, venom bright behind her beauty.
“Better a dog than a traitor.”
Storne didn’t flinch.
He leaned closer, his whisper grazing her skin once more.
“Do you think he passed his gift to his son?”
A laugh escaped her, sharp and brittle.
“Tristan is a boy still,” she said. “You’ve grown desperate if you come hunting after children.”
Storne’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Not him.”
A pause—deliberate.
