Virellionn.
Breaker of Oaths.
She had been one of them once—an heiress of the crescent-towered courts of Elarith Quor, a child who'd grown up tracing the moon-rift sigils on terrace balustrades and listening to harp lessons carried on jasmine wind. Now that same bloodline draped her shoulders in boneplate and iron thorns, and the night itself bent away from her like grass before a wildfire. General. Breaker of Oaths. Virellionn.
The realization slammed into Sylvanna's chest with such force she nearly gagged on the thick dream-air. That face—the cut of cheekbones, the slanted amber eyes—could have been her own reflection if hatred were a sculptor. Every choice Sylvanna had ducked or repented seemed carven in Virellionn's armor like tally marks.
She jerked backward from Raëdrithar's glowing antlers, breath ripping free in a half-sob. The vision ghosted from her retinas in ragged shards of crimson and emberlight but left the taste of scorched sap in her mouth.
