Isolde's hand cracked across Lyra's face, the sound echoed harshly through the staircase. Lyra swayed from the blow, her cheek stinging, but she didn't raise a hand to defend herself. She didn't even flinch. Her mind was elsewhere, heavy with grief, so far gone that she barely registered the second strike.
But Isolde wasn't done.
"You filthy little whore!" Isolde spat, her voice rising with each word. She struck again, her rings grazing her cheek as her palm met Lyra's pale skin.
Lyra stumbled back against the railing, but she made no move to stop her. Her hands hung limply at her sides, her breath trembling but silent. Her mind hadn't registered what was happening to her at the moment. She was detached. The emotional pain clouded the physical one.
Isolde's fury grew wilder at Lyra's lack of response. She slapped her again, and again, her voice shrill and venomous. "How dare you show your face here! That hair… that cursed hair!"
