The silence in the Central Square was a held breath. Every eye was on Isadora, waiting. Valestra's offer, her cruel, generous, terrible offer, hung in the air, a baited hook shimmering in the spring sunlight. Your reputation… for her freedom. It was a simple, brutal equation. A public crucifixion in exchange for her sister's life.
Isadora looked at Valestra's dazzling, predatory smile. She saw the absolute certainty in the noblewoman's eyes, the smug satisfaction of a cat that has finally cornered a mouse. Valestra expected tears. She expected a broken, weeping confession. She expected a victory.
And in that moment, the fear and the grief and the suffocating weight of the last week coalesced inside Isadora into a single, sharp, glittering point of pure, undiluted rage. The tigress awoke.
Isadora smiled.
It was not a wide smile, but a small, sharp, dangerous curving of her lips that did not touch her eyes. She tilted her head, her expression one of polite, curious consideration.
