Charlotte sighed, then let out a short, biting laugh that startled a bird from its perch. She never liked that Amara woman, not from the moment she'd opened her perfectly painted mouth and started speaking as though they were equals. A thorn, and an eager one at that.
The sun dappled across the broken stone of the old Ironshade waystation, its shadow stretching long and cracked beneath the moss and ivy. The curled remnants of a once-proud sigil lay carved in a collapsed archway nearby, worn by centuries of weather and forgetfulness. Charlotte clicked her tongue thoughtfully.
"Well then," she said, strolling with her usual long, theatrical gait toward Amara, who stood examining a rusted old basin. "You have brought up the wrong game to the wrong woman."
Amara turned, one brow lifting with delight at the challenge. Charlotte gave her a sunny smile, but her eyes remained like flint. She flicked her wrist as though readying a fan, despite holding none.
