Flora's voice cracked against the still air of the chamber, her frustration spilling over like water against stone.
"Luna, I'm telling you, he is not like what you are thinking... why don't you just listen?"
Her hands trembled where they pressed against her dress, fingernails biting into silk, but it wasn't anger that shook her—it was desperation. She could feel Luna slipping away from her with every passing word.
Luna, perched near the window where the fading light painted her hair a blood-red halo, folded her arms across her chest. Her twin ponytails swung like whips with the sharp jerk of her head, each strand catching the glow of the late sun. Defiance clung to her body like armor.
Her eyes, though, were soft. Too soft for the sharpness of her words.
"Flora…" she said again, her voice both cold and carrying an undercurrent of care. "That peasant. That fucking peasant of yours. He is a dangerous one, I tell you. Ambitious—very ambitious."
