Elyra stared at Iryna's outstretched hand.
She didn't take it. Not yet. Because in this palace, an open hand was just a closed fist waiting for the right moment, and Elyra had been fooled by kindness before. She'd married it. Wore its ring. Let it hollow her out from the inside.
"You'll forgive me if I don't find your timing particularly comforting," Elyra said. "I've just been stripped of my title, sentenced to a convent, and watched my husband's dragon weep for me. And now the youngest daughter of the woman who has spent five years trying to destroy my marriage wants to be my friend."
Iryna didn't lower her hand. Didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
"My mother," Iryna said calmly, "is a fool who mistakes volume for power. I am not my mother."
"No," Elyra agreed. "You're quieter. Which makes you more dangerous."
Something moved behind Iryna's eyes. That flicker again — approval, maybe, or the recognition of a kindred mind.
