Julian's voice was a frantic thread, brittle and thin, snapping against the oppressive open air of the square. "Your Majesty... please. She is a child. Spare her. Let her innocence be."
Evangeline didn't move. She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, her profile as sharp and unyielding as a blade forged in ice.
"Since when do my people concern you, Julian?" Her voice didn't rise, yet it possessed a jagged edge that cut through his plea, silencing him instantly. "Know your place. I haven't laid a finger on the girl, so stop clawing at matters that aren't yours to settle."
A few paces away, the mother stood like a statue carved from parched bone. She didn't weep; she didn't even blink. In this court, to show grief in the Queen's presence was a royal insult—treason disguised as a tear.
