“No,” he says. “You were conflicted.”
The word lands like a blade sliding between ribs.
Clean.
Accurate.
I don’t react. I don’t give him that.
“Is that what they say at court?” I ask instead.
His expression shifts—just enough to acknowledge the deflection.
“They’re saying worse.”
A soft laugh threads in from the side.
Light. Polished.
Valloa. Dark, cruel, beautiful, and conniving--the perfect dark elf wife, and my ambitious stepmother. Even heavily pregnant she carries an ease, a grace I can never emulate.
“Now, now,” she says, stepping closer, her presence sliding into the space like she belongs there. “We don’t want to disillusion our dear Verginyon, do we husband?”
Her gaze flicks over me, bright with something that isn’t quite amusement but not quite open rancor either.
“Though,” she continues, “it is…interesting.”
I turn my head just enough to meet her eyes.
“Say it.” I don’t bother to soften my tone. Her house is of lower standing than ours, and I see her as my inferior no matter if she shares my father’s bed.
Her smile sharpens. I get the feeling I have fallen into another of her word traps. She’s a sly one, I’ll give her that.
“People are beginning to wonder,” she says, “whether your temper is truly as…unpredictable as they thought.”
There’s weight behind the words. Not accusation. Invitation.
I study her for a moment.
“And what do you think?” My lips twist into a smile that does not reach my eyes. “Dear Stepmother?”
“Oh, I don’t think anything,” she says lightly. “I observe.”
Of course she does.
“They’re watching you,” she adds. “Waiting to see if you’ll prove them right.”
“Or wrong.”
“Or irrelevant,” she corrects.
Maltos exhales softly, as if the conversation has already outlived its usefulness.
“There is a gathering at court,” he says. “Ostensibly about increasing productivity in our agriculture, but it will be far more than that.”
My attention shifts back to him instantly.
“When?”
