Without a jaw or a voice or any way to shape the words her lungs were trying to form, the appeal lived entirely in her eyes, and Aelindra put everything she had left into them.
Every shred of regret, every fraction of the sister she used to be, every desperate plea she couldn't speak pouring through two wide, wet eyes that begged for something she had no right to ask for.
She was begging.
A member of the Elvardian Council, a Level 74 blade dancer who had commanded armies and sat in judgment over nations, was on her knees in a blood-soaked cell begging her chained sister for mercy with nothing but her gaze, because she had destroyed every other way to reach her.
Myrasyn watched every second of it, and her face changed for a second time.
The composure cracked. Beneath the stern queen and the horrified sister sat a woman who had spent every hour in this dungeon knowing exactly which member of her family had put her here, and the hatred that crawled to the surface was old and deep.
