The whispers followed us like shadows that refused to detach, twisting through the air and clinging to the cobblestones.
As we moved deeper into the street, my heightened hearing caught everything—the words meant to wound, the ones meant to warn, and the ones intended as admiration. They slipped through the crowd like delicate threads, easily missed if you weren't paying attention. But I was listening.
"Royal menace…"
"A fiend in silk."
"That girl is dangerous."
"Witch."
And then—spoken with a strange mixture of fear, awe, and reluctant respect—
"The Ice Witch."
I smiled. Not wide. Not sharp. Just enough to acknowledge the name without giving anything away.
Seems like people have heard of me icing disobedient citizens but decided to call me a witch.
Hah.
Nero's presence slithered into my mind, all smugness and faint mischief.
