The maid behind him—Helviana—gave a small, correct dip of her skirt. Her eyes were warm, but they moved to Dara with a particular, knowing softness.
Naro looked at the maid.
Then at Dara.
Then at Helviana.
"I saw you," Naro said slowly. Her gaze fixed on Helviana. "This morning. Talking with my girl. My Dara."
Helviana did not flinch.
But something in her eyes—something brief, a flicker of acknowledgment—told Naro that the observation had landed.
"Yes," Helviana said. Her voice was warm, steady, the voice of a woman who had decided to be honest. "I had become a good friend with her. That is why I told my lord to save her."
Naro absorbed this.
Her broad chest rose and fell under her blouse. The rage that had been building—the murderous, protective, maternal rage—met something else. Gratitude. The uncomfortable, reluctant, still-warm gratitude of a woman who had been ready to kill and had instead been given a reason not to.
She looked at Viktor.
At the violet eyes.
