Lorraine turned slowly to face Aralyn, meeting the woman's gaze head-on. Aralyn was looking at her with what might, at a superficial glance, be mistaken for motherly guidance. But Lorraine knew better.
No matter how generously she tried to interpret it, there wasn't a trace of warmth in Aralyn's tone, nor even a flicker of affection in her eyes. What radiated from her instead was something far sharper: an imperious anger, steeped in the quiet certainty that she had the right to be angry. Pride. Ownership. As if the very walls of this house bowed to her by ancestral right.
Lorraine understood, at least in part. Aralyn had the blood of the Dragon in her veins. You could exile a royal from the palace, but you could never wash the royalty out of their blood. That kind of pride was bone-deep, older than crowns, and impossible to feign.
The question was, did Aralyn know of her blood? Or was this commanding presence simply instinct, echoing through generations of the Aurelthar lineage?
