"Go on," I said softly, voice like frost. "We're listening."
My words felt unfamiliar in my own mouth cold, deliberate, edged with something sharp that left a taste of iron on my tongue. Around us, the cafeteria's usual noise receded as if the room itself was holding its breath. I could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on us, but all my attention was fixed on the small, rapidly unraveling drama at our table: Velka's hand on Aria's wrist, Aria's knuckles white, and everyone else caught somewhere between concern and dawning, electric suspicion.
What was happening? Why did Velka's glare promise blood? Why was Aria , who never lost her composure, who could command a roomful of demon nobility with a single glance suddenly shrinking, her mask of calm fracturing under pressure?
I realized, belatedly, that my own hand was clenched around my fork so tightly that my knuckles ached. I set it down quietly, pretending I was in control of the room, of the situation, of my own confusion.
