Evangeline's fingers froze as she stared at him, the ethereal smoke of her magic still curling from her fingertips like the remnants of a rebellious soul after she had parried the final dagger at the lethal last second. Her breathing was audible—sharp, jagged, and erratic—tearing through the silence of a hall heavy with tension. Meanwhile, he remained as motionless as a statue riddled with arrows; not a single lash flickered, and a trail of crimson blood began to crawl slowly down the stark white of his painted face, looking like a deepening crack in a porcelain mask.
"Satisfying?" she repeated in a low voice, vibrating with a suppressed fury that simmered beneath her skin. She stepped toward him slowly, her heels striking the marble floor with a firm, military precision—a rhythmic echo that promised retribution—until she stood directly in front of him, invading his space with her customary dominance.
