"Tsk, tsk… what a dramatic little scene."
The voice sliced through the silence—sharp, mocking, and cruel.
Both Lyra and Norman turned abruptly, eyes locking onto the figure slinking from the shadows.
Miranda.
She moved like a serpent, every step calculated and deadly. The click of her heels echoed ominously through the stone chamber as she clapped slowly—mock applause that bled contempt.
That infuriating smirk pulled at her lips—feral, poisonous.
"Well, well," she drawled, head tilting with faux sympathy. "The neglected daughter finally found her voice. How… touching."
Her eyes swept over Lyra with cruel amusement.
"A tragedy for some. A comedy for the rest of us."
Norman's jaw ticked. His fists curled at his sides, but he said nothing.
Lyra saw it, though—the twitch in his fingers, the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the way he avoided looking at her. He wasn't just ashamed.
He was afraid.
Miranda saw it too.
