Veilera's amber eyes widened. The pupils dilated. The 'the-Holy-Church-is-using-Catorian-knights' realization that made no political sense and was therefore terrifying.
"Priestess?" she repeated. The word was hollow. Her gaze moved from the knights to the carriage. The large, ornate, closed carriage with the Catorian crest and the Holy Church's silver sun mounted on the roof.
She could not refuse. The Catorian family, whatever their political standing, were Dukes. A Baroness did not refuse a Duke's summons. The political reality, the hierarchy of noble rank, was absolute. She could be angry. She could plan revenge. But she could not refuse.
Her jaw clenched. Her fan snapped shut.
'This is a power play,' she thought. The amber eyes, narrowed, calculated. 'After declaring independence, after refusing to bow, they use force. They use the Holy Church as a shield. They summon me. A Baroness. To a carriage. Like a servant.'
'I will make sure to deal with this forcefully.'
