"What do you think you're doing?"
The voice was low—controlled, even melodic but it didn't belong to Lara.
Turik froze mid-swing, his blade gleaming just inches from Lara's cheek, who had already stepped sideways away from the blade.
From the far end of the corridor, a shadow peeled itself from the wall—graceful, deliberate. The woman stepped forward into the flickering light, the torchlight dancing over the delicate folds of her silk gown. A gauzy black veil obscured the upper half of her face, but not the faint curl of disdain on her painted lips.
The golden armlet on her upper arm caught the light—a serpent coiling around her pale skin. Turik paled.
"Queen Miranda," he said stiffly, lowering his sword. The arrogance drained from his voice, replaced by nervous deference. "I was merely… questioning the prisoner. What brings you here, Your Highness? This place is unworthy of your presence."
