Evangeline didn't blink. She studied the wall, tracing the loops of her own name written in slick, greyish coils of gut. It wasn't art, and to her, it wasn't even a threat. It was just waste. The promise of her death was nothing more than a dull hum in the background, as irrelevant as the buzzing of a fly.
Behind her, Silver's presence felt jagged. The theatrical mask had slipped, leaving something raw and strained in its place. He knew she could stomach blood, but this—this public display of filth on her own walls—was a direct spit in the face of her crown.
"Your Majes—"
She didn't turn. She simply lifted a hand, a sharp, flat gesture that choked the air out of his lungs.
"Silence, Silver. Let me think."
He backed into the dark, leaving her alone with the meat. Evangeline stepped closer, her fingers hovering just an inch from the dangling viscera before she finally pressed them into the slime. She didn't recoil. She didn't even flinch.
