"You will help me," Raven said abruptly. "Clean me. Dress me. I have duties to return to, and I am… less than presentable."
Vanella's pulse leapt. "Your Majesty?"
"Yes. You," he said simply. "If you fail, it will be your head, but I suspect you'll manage."
Her hands shook slightly as she took the garments from him. She kept her face blank. Every nerve screamed, but she forced herself to move slowly, efficiently, hiding every surge of chaos inside her chest.
As she adjusted his clothing, he watched her. Not suspicious, not impatient—but intensely aware.
"You were in Rossenvale?" he asked, voice low. "Tell me what happened there."
She stiffened, but bowed her head, controlling the rage and madness that nearly spilled from her eyes. "The city… fell. The royal family… gone. Everyone…" Her voice faltered for only a heartbeat, then she regained composure. "I am a servant now, Your Majesty."
He paused. Most would tremble under such questioning. Some would wail. But in her eyes, he saw… restraint. Fury wrapped in control. It was dangerous, and yet it fascinated him.
"I see," he said softly. "And what do you want?"
Vanella's hands stilled for a split second, but she controlled herself. "To survive, Your Majesty," she said evenly.
He studied her. Then, for the first time, he gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Good," he said. "You may continue."
She exhaled quietly, pretending it was just part of the work. Inside, her heart raced. Every instinct screamed to speak, to cry, to throw herself into the hall's shadows—but she held back. Controlled. Focused. Alive.
As she left, Raven muttered to himself, quietly, more to the empty wing than to her:
"Interesting. Very interesting indeed…"