Olga remembered that moment far too clearly, how the tenth prince, Muzio, had extended his hand toward her as they were preparing that afternoon. The memory still irritated her, she could almost feel the stiffness in her shoulders and the grit in her teeth.
She had frowned, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the pale, slender bandaged hand held out in front of her.
"What do you want?" she had grumbled, her tone low and rough as she adjusted the cloak draped over her shoulders. The fabric was far too white for her taste, an absurd color for someone used to shadows and mud, to being unseen and unheard. White was for saints, nobles, and fools who never had to stalk prey through a forest or drag corpses from the snow just to burn them together in a clump for heat.
