The morning sun barely warmed the streets of Ashvale, its pale light slicing through the stubborn veil of mist clinging to the cobblestones. Winter loomed just around the corner, and Lamberra pulled her fraying gray shawl tighter around her shoulders. The chill gnawed through the threadbare fabric, settling deep into her bones, but she continued forward. In the morning when she laced her boots it bit into her fingers. She'd whispered a small prayer to an unknown God that they'd hold for one more week.
At dawn, Mama had already been awake, tending the small garden behind their tired home while keeping an eye on Amara, her little sister. Lamberra's thoughts lingered on them as she walked the narrow streets toward the market. The weight of responsibility had begun shifting from her mother's shoulders onto Lamberra's. It was an invisible burden growing heavier each day but who else was going to do it?
The scent of fresh bread, ripe fruit, and aromatic spices curled through the crisp air, making her stomach twist with longing. Hunger was an old, familiar ache she'd learned to carry quietly, like everyone else in the slums. At one stall, the baker, a stout man with sharp eyes and an impatient demeanor, caught her lingering gaze. He held up a loaf of bread, its golden crust gleaming in the weak light.
The scent of the market reached her before the noise did. The fresh bread mingling with the tang of ripened fruit and the sharp bite of crushed herbs. The smells made her chest ache with both longing and resentment. Hunger wasn't new but she'd learned to carry it without complaint, to hide it behind polite smiles and lowered eyes. Everyone in the slums had.
The baker's stall was already busy, steam rising from baskets lined with linen. The man himself, broad-shouldered, face ruddy from the oven's heat, caught Lamberra's gaze lingering too long on a loaf. He didn't smile. He never did.
"Two for the bread," he said flatly, voice as dry as the crust he held aloft.
Lamberra's fingers tightened around the small handful of coins in her pouch. Precious money but she had no choice. She hesitated only a moment before pressing them into his rough hand.
"Thank you," she murmured, though the words barely found breath.
The baker had already turned to the next customer. To him, she was another face blurred into the background of his day, a shadow among countless others. She tucked the loaf under her arm and turned away, cheeks burning red.
Across the market square, someone had been watching Lamberra.
Lacey Everknight stood beneath the edge of another merchant's awning, her gloved hands clasped loosely before her. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and rain-damp stone, but she wasn't paying attention to that. Her eyes followed the exchange at the baker's stall. She'd seen how his gaze slid over Lamberra, how quick and dismissive it was. There was something about the indifference that bothered Lacey.
It wasn't pity. It was more like irritation. She was used to power, to the invisible current that parted crowds when her family's name was spoken flanked by knights. Yet in that small, thoughtless moment, she felt a spark of anger for the girl no one noticed. But Lacey always noticed Lamberra.
Lacey shifted her weight, the dark violet folds of her cloak catching the weak sunlight. Gold embroidery glimmered faintly at the collarbone, a deliberate statement of who she was and what she represented. Behind her, her knights stood in perfect formation: silent, impassive, the clink of their armor punctuating the morning air. With confidence, Lacey took a step forward into the market square.
"You'll need to try harder than that if you want a discount, Lamberra!" Lacey's voice carried cleanly over the market's murmur with a slight tease attached to it.
The sound cut through Lamberra before she even registered the words. They were sharp yet familiar. She turned quickly, her beaten shawl shifting against her shoulders. Instinct made her tug it tighter across her chest. Of course it was Lacey, she thought.
"Not everyone's heart is that soft," Lamberra muttered. She didn't bother masking the rasp of fatigue in her voice. Then her sarcasm came next. "What are you doing here? The castle's cook fall dead?"
Lacey only smiled. The one that softened her whole face, that made even her sharpest thoughts seem harmless. Sunlight caught her copper hair, turning each loose curl into a flicker of light cascading down her shoulders.
"Not everyone's, no," she said lightly. Her gaze dipped to the loaf tucked beneath Lamberra's arm. "But yours is. That for dinner tonight?"
Lamberra's grip tightened around the loaf. "Of course." The word came out clipped, edges honed by years of scraping by. None of the sharp words were meant for Lacey. It was meant for the world that demanded too much.
For just a heartbeat, Lacey's smile slipped. Guilt overcame her and quietly touched her features. She wanted to help. Lamberra could see that.
"You know I can help, if you'd allow-"
"I don't need your charity." Lamberra's interruption was firm, but her eyes faltered. For a breath, their gazes locked. Lacey's eyes were open but Lamberra's was impossible to read.
"Well then," she said, letting a smirk curl across her lips, "I'll just have to keep the money for the tavern tonight. You will be there, yes?"
Lamberra hesitated. A small twitch pulled at the corner of her mouth, the closest she came to amusement in public. "I'll come, but I won't be able to afford much-"
"Stop." Lacey stepped close enough that Lamberra could smell the faint sweetness of the castle kitchens clinging to her. She brushed two fingers across Lamberra's lips. A fleeting touch, playful by design, but it sent Lamberra's pulse slamming upwards. "That's never an issue," Lacey murmured.
Lamberra didn't have time to form a reply. Lacey was already turning away, slipping into the crowd with a ripple of laughter trailing behind her. A sound warm enough to make the morning seem gentler for anyone but the girl left standing in it.
When Lacey vanished, the market's noise rushed back all at once. Lamberra felt the emptiness settle over her like a thin frost. Her heartbeat finally slowed, though it left a restless ache behind. She clutched the bread tighter, frustration and gratitude tangling in her chest until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Ahead, the narrow streets leading back to the slums waited. They were dark yet familiar and hers as she made her way to her second and final stop.
The apothecary clung to the slum's edge like a building that had simply given up trying to belong. Its warped timbers blended into the row of crooked houses, all of them bowing toward the road. Above the door, the wooden sign creaked with every breath of wind, the faded paint showing glimpses of the bold colors it once flaunted.
Lamberra paused at the threshold. The chill of morning still clung to her, settling like damp cloth against her skin. Her fingers tightened around the frayed border of her shawl before walking in.
Once inside, the air was thick with scent. Dried herbs. Peppery spices. Dust. Old wood that held the memory of smoke. The mix wrapped around her, comforting and suffocating all at once.
Behind the counter, Mister Finch lifted his head. Surprise flickered through his pale blue eyes before softening into recognition.
"Lamberra!" he rasped, his gravelly voice warmed by familiarity. His wiry frame looked half-swallowed by the tired gray vest that seemed older than she was. Deep wrinkles branched across his face like cracks in a weathered wall, but his hands while trembling still moved with that same deliberate precision she'd grown up watching.
Lamberra stepped inside fully. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing in the mingled scents and the hush that always clung to this place. Her gaze moved along the cluttered shelves stacked with jars: brittle roots, powdered minerals, leaves dried crisp as parchment. Finch's shop had always felt like a sanctuary to her.
"Come for lavender again, have you?" Finch asked as he straightened, bones protesting audibly. He'd known her mother long enough to guess before asking; lavender had been her cure-all for decades. His gaze sharpened as he studied Lamberra, lingering on the faint exhaustion smudged beneath her eyes.
Lamberra nodded. "Mama needs more for her herbs." Her voice held steady, but her fingers betrayed her as they fidgeted at the threads unraveling from her shawl.
Finch retrieved a jar with surprising ease. "How's your mother, then? Haven't seen her in weeks. Heard she was sick?" His tone was gentle, but his eyes were always observant as he watched her carefully handing the jar of lavender over.
"She's fine," Lamberra answered too quickly. The jar's cool glass steadied her as she turned it over in her hands. The weight grounded her, but her thoughts were already drifting away from the cramped little shop. They drifted to Lacey. Her impossible brightness, the silk-lined world she belonged to, the world Lamberra could only orbit. Lacey's laughter echoed in her memory, light and untroubled, a sound that belonged nowhere near the slums. Why someone like her cared at all was a question Lamberra had never dared to ask. However her chest still warmed at the thought of her for a reason could not determine.
Finch's eyes narrowed, reading far more than she intended to show. "Lamberra?" he probed.
She jolted, a nervous laugh escaping. "Oh! She's better now," she said hastily as she set the jar down with a soft thud. She forced a thin and practiced smile. "Just a slight cold."
"Well, good," he muttered. "Tell her I said to stop by sometime." Finch's warm face comforted her even if Finch knew there was more than meets the eye happening.
He eyed her pouch as she reached for it; only two gold crowns left inside. Before she could produce them, he lifted a shaking hand to stop her.
"No ma'am," Finch said, and the firmness in his voice softened immediately. "On me today." He pulled a small cloth bag from behind the counter and held it out. "Here. Put the lavender in, and the bread too." His smile deepened, gentle as worn linen. "Only payment is… bring my bag and jar back next time."
"Thank you, Mister Finch," she managed. Her voice was quiet, but her eyes carried the rest as gratitude swelled in her chest, hot enough to sting.
She tucked the bag beneath her shawl and stepped out into the street. The door swung shut behind her. Inside, Finch lingered, staring at the empty space she'd left behind. He had always liked that family. Their quiet strength with their sweetness. They reminded him of what a royal family should be, the ones who built the Kingdoms. With a weary sigh, Finch lowered himself back into his chair, the wood creaking beneath him.
Outside, the noise of the city thinned as Lamberra walked deeper into the slums. The shouts of merchants and clatter of carts faded until only scraps remained. Houses slumped toward one another in weary solidarity, their roofs sagging. She moved through the narrow lanes with practiced steps, careful of the uneven stones beneath her boots.
Children's laughter drifted faintly through the air, bright and fleeting, threading itself between the distant cries of infants and the low murmur of neighbors trading weary greetings. It was the music of the slums.
When she reached the leaning structure she called home, she found her mother on the porch. Selma sat with her shoulders curved inward, her fingers worrying a loose thread on her skirt as if pulling at it might unravel her thoughts instead. Her head lifted at the sound of Lamberra's steps. Relief softened her worn features, smudging out the hard angles fatigue had carved there.
Nearby, little Amara sat cross-legged on the warped boards, a handful of wildflowers in her lap. She threaded their stems together with slow, deliberate concentration, tongue poking slightly from the corner of her mouth.
"Did you get it?" Selma asked quietly.
Lamberra nodded and held up the small bag containing the lavender and the large loaf of bread. Selma let out a long and steady breath
Lamberra's gaze slid to Amara. The faintest smile curved her lips. It was fragile but real.
Amara finished her creation with a triumphant little sound. She placed the crooked crown atop her own tangled hair, her face shining with pride. "Look, Mama! I made a crown!"
Selma's whole expression softened, warmth blooming in her tired voice. "You look like a true princess, my love." The words wrapped themselves around all three of them, a small shelter carved from nothing, the sort of moment that made them family.
Lamberra paused at the porch's edge, letting herself drink it in: the crooked crown, the sunlight catching in Amara's blonde hair, the rare ease in her mother's eyes. Something in her chest loosened, a knot she hadn't realized she'd been fighting. It was gone as quickly as it came. Still, it was something.
Stepping forward, she knelt to place the lavender at Selma's feet. "I'll take this to the kitchen, Mama," she said, lifting the bread.
"Thank you, my sweet girl." Selma's voice was soft, and for a breath, her brown eyes brightened beneath the shadows. Lamberra answered with a small nod and then turned toward Amara.
She crouched beside her sister, tilting her head with exaggerated scrutiny. "You're quite the artist," she murmured, gently tucking a stray petal back into place.
Amara giggled, straightening her crown with both hands. "I'm going to wear it to school tomorrow! Everyone will see me!"
Lamberra's heart twisted. "Of course they will." She forced a touch of playful bravado into her voice. A smile lifted her lips, though it felt too thin, almost brittle. "You'll be the most beautiful girl in Ashvale."
She couldn't help but look at her beautiful little sister. Innocent and full of life, she had no idea of the horrors that waited for her one day. Lamberra knew that truth intimately; it had shaped her entire life. The quiet hope that one day she might carve a way out, might give her sister something better, burned inside her like an everlasting fire.
Selma's voice broke into her thoughts. "How was the market, dear?"
Lamberra rose and followed her mother inside the small, sagging house. The doorframe groaned as they crossed beneath it. "It was good," she said, trying to make her tone light. "Ran into Lacey again."
Selma stiffened instantly. The warmth from moments ago evaporated, replaced by something guarded and sharp. "Lacey?" Her voice shifted, laced with unease. "Why does that highborn girl keep bothering you? It was kind, what she did for you last year, but… people talk, Lamberra. I can't keep being embarrassed by her sudden appearances."
Lamberra clenched her jaw. "I know, Mama." The words came out tight and defensive. She kept her eyes fixed anywhere but her mother's face. "I can't control it. She just… shows up."
Selma let out a slow, weary exhale. Her shoulders sagged. After a moment, she reached out and rested a hand on Lamberra's arm. The touch was gentle, but the concern beneath it was solid. "Don't do anything foolish, okay?"
The words struck Lamberra like a beesting. She pulled her arm back, lips pressed shut, the protest rising in her chest but trapped there. Without responding, she crossed the cramped room and set the loaf on the counter with more force than necessary. She slipped into the tiny bedroom she shared with Amara. The dimness folded around her immediately, swallowing whatever expression she still wore. She collapsed onto the thin mattress, its familiar sag cradling her on the floor.
Lamberra closed her eyes trying to ignore Mama's comment before slipping into a deep sleep from exhaustion into a repeating nightmare.
The tavern swallowed her whole. Dim lanterns guttered against the smoke-thick air, casting murky halos over slouched bodies and tables buried under half-drunk mugs. Every surface felt sticky. The scent of ale, sweat, old wood, and unwashed skin. Lamberra sagged over a splintered table, dragging her fingers through the tacky grooves worn deep.
Noise washed over her in waves: booming laughter, slurred arguments, the sharp clink of glass. It all blended into a chaotic hum that blurred the edges of her thoughts. Her chest beat too quickly, each breath tinged with the warmth of the ale swirling through her blood. Her head felt light, pleasantly detached, as if someone had loosened the world's grip on her.
The bartender stopped beside her. His broad shoulders and eyes were too knowing for comfort. "Another round, lassy?" His rumbling voice cut through the haze.
Lamberra nodded, or felt herself nod. The room gave a slow, syrupy tilt with the movement. "Sure," she managed, words slurring together. The mug was cold against her lips. The ale burned a rough path down her throat, settling warm and heavy in her stomach. Faces around her blurred, melting into vague shapes as voices rose and fell like tides she couldn't quite swim in. Each sip softened the world and made it easier to forget.
That's when she saw him.
He sat alone across the tavern. He was older, hunched over his mug, pale sunken eyes fixed on her with unnerving focus. When he noticed her looking back, his mouth twisted into a crooked grin, a flash of missing teeth catching in the candlelight.
Unease prickled sharply along the back of her neck.
He pushed to his feet and wove his way toward her, his steps uneven, his shadow spilling over her as he stopped too close.
"Well, aren't you a pretty one," he drawled, breath rank of shit and rot. "What's a girl like you doin' in a place like this? Never seen you before."
Lamberra forced her gaze up, fingers tightening around her mug until her knuckles ached. "Trying to forget the realities of this world," she said. Her voice held steady, though her heartbeat hammered hard enough that she felt it in her throat.
"Ha! Aren't we all?" His laugh scraped the air. He slapped a heavy hand against her back; she flinched at the sudden weight of it. He leaned closer, a cloud of old tobacco clinging to him. "Say, how old are you?"
The question sliced through the haze. It was sharp.
She shifted back in her seat, discomfort blooming into a cold, rising dread. Before she could answer, he lowered his voice to an oily whisper.
"How 'bout I buy you another?" His fingers skimmed along her arm. "I can show you a good time."
Her stomach turned.
"No, thank you." She pushed at the chair, trying to stand, but his hand snapped around her wrist. It was iron-tight and unyielding.
"C'mon, don't be shy," he murmured, tugging harder. "I promise I can make it worth your while."
"Let go of me!" Fear surged. It was mixed with anger until her voice trembled, but the tavern swallowed her cry whole. No heads turned. No one cared.
The man yanked her toward the back door, his grip bruising. She stumbled after him, feet dragging uselessly against the floor. Cold night air smacked her as he hauled her into the alley. The noise of the tavern died behind them, replaced by her ragged breathing and his low mutters.
"Just a little fun, that's all," he said darkly.
Then he shoved her against the rough stone wall. Her pulse thundered in her ears. "You're making a mistake!" she shouted, panic cracking through her voice.
Lamberra twisted and nearly broke free, but his eyes were glassy. They were detached and vacant, as if he weren't truly there. His hand swung up fast. The slap landed with brutal force. Pain exploded across her cheek and the side of her head. Knocked to the ground, the world lurched, blurred, spun. Her shawl slid from her shoulders exposing her chest.
She gasped, trying to rise, but her body wouldn't move.
A metallic clink sounded on his belt, the sure sound of unbuckling. Terror crashed over her like a wave. She felt him lift the edge of her shawl, yank at the waistband of her worn pants and underwear. The night air bit against her exposed skin. Open and vulnerable, too weak to fight back, Lamberra had accepted her fate. His hand shoved her face against the cold and unforgiving stone.
Then, footsteps. Heavy ones as the man became frozen in place.
Three knights filled the alleyway, crimson cloaks rustling, the insignia of a burning red arrow emblazoned across their armor. The lead knight stepped forward, his presence alone shifting the air.
"What's going on here?" His voice was even, but it carried a blade's edge.
Lamberra dragged in a breath, her vision swimming. "He's trying to…" but the words tangled, snagging painfully in her throat.
The knight raised a hand to stop her gently. His gaze shifted to the man, cold and cutting.
"I…I was just talkin' to the girl!" the man sputtered, backing away, voice pitching high with fear.
"Talking?" The knight let out a harsh scoff, stepping closer. " What? Couldn't buy a whore? Too broke?" His tone was merciless.
The knights descended on the man with practiced efficiency. He shouted, buckled, struggled, but it didn't matter. Within moments, they hauled him away, his protests shrinking into distant echoes swallowed by the night.
Lamberra slumped against the wall, trembling violently as the adrenaline drained from her. Her breaths came jagged, uneven. She looked down at her torn shawl and underwear and muttered, "Great."
"You're safe now."
The voice was gentle and clear. It did not belong to any knight.
Lamberra tried to meet her gaze.
A young woman stood before her, framed by the dim lantern glow: golden eyes bright as coins, copper-bronze hair tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders, catching every sliver of light. She wore a fitted emerald gown embroidered with intricate detail that glimmered faintly with each breath she took.
"I saw everything," the woman said softly. "I was worried about you."
Lamberra swallowed, throat raw. "Who… who are you?"
The woman stepped closer, each movement graceful and measured. "I'm Lacey Everknight. Daughter of Lord Wendell Everknight of Ravenwood."
She gestured toward the knights waiting at the alley's edge. "I was in the tavern with my guards. Learning about the people I will one day rule." Her eyes softened, worrying clouding her elegant features. "Your eye is swollen… and your face. There's so much blood." Lacey went down to one knee beside her.
Lacey reached out, brushing her fingers gently through Lamberra's short brown hair, the touch tender in a way that made Lamberra's breath catch. Seeing the ruined state of Lamberra's lower clothing, she snapped her gaze toward a knight. "Fetch a blanket."
While the knight hurried off, Lacey crouched beside Lamberra, carefully trying to adjust her ripped underwear, though the fabric was beyond saving. Lamberra's stomach heaved; the ale churned violently.
Lamberra lurched violently, throwing up across Lacey's dress and shoes.
"Oh gods…I'm so sorry, my lady," she choked out. "Please, forgive me."
Other knights simply watched over the entire interaction as Lacey only smiled, calm and impossibly gentle. "All is forgiven."
The knight returned with a blanket. Lacey wrapped it snugly around Lamberra, tying it securely at the front protecting her.
"Let's get you home," she murmured. "Where do you live?"
Lamberra stammered directions, shame and exhaustion blurring her words. The knights took formation around them. Lacey kept a steady hand on Lamberra's shoulder as they walked. It was light, warm, reassuring. Crimson cloaks shifted on either side like protective wings.
For the first time, warmth pierced through the fear. Lamberra dared a glance upward.
Lacey met hers back. Soft and sincere.
Something fragile unfurled in Lamberra's chest, maybe she wasn't entirely alone in this world.
Lamberra jolted awake as Amara's small body slammed squarely onto her stomach.
"Dinner time!" Amara crowed, her grin impossibly wide, golden-blonde hair sticking out in wild, triumphant tangles.
Air punched out of Lamberra's lungs in a wheeze. She groaned, blinking against the sunlight filtering through the patched curtains. The remnants of her nightmare still clung to her like cobwebs. Fleeting images, too blurred to name, yet her heart pounded as though she had been running. She sucked in a shaky breath.
"Okay, okay! I'm up," she muttered, nudging Amara aside with the gentlest version of irritation. She shoved the thick blanket off her legs. The one Lacey got her. The same one wrapped around her trembling body that night. For a moment she held it in her palms, staring at the place where its threads caught the light.
Amara's delighted tumble off the cot broke the spell. Lamberra exhaled a small, reluctant laugh as her sister bounced gleefully on the floorboards. Despite everything, despite the storm inside her, Lamberra smiled. She pushed herself upright from the thin mattress laid directly on the floor, stretching until her spine popped.
Lamberra had a small and narrow body, one where she could vanish into any crowd. It was useful when she wanted to disappear. Her patched tunics and trousers hung loosely on her body, frayed edges whispering with each movement. None of them matched. None had for years.
Her hair was a wreck. Dark brown, unevenly cut, refusing to behave. It stuck out in angles that defied sense. She dragged her fingers through it trying to brush it out, but the strands sprang right back. With her slight features and rough clothes, she could easily pass for a young boy. Sometimes she wondered if that would make life easier.
Behind her, Amara hopped on the balls of her feet. "Amara," Lamberra croaked, her voice still drenched in sleep, "what's for dinner?"
"Soup and bread! Your favorite soup!" Amara announced, practically glowing.
Her stomach twisted in hunger. It was sharp and insistent, but she hid it with a crooked smirk. "Is that tomato soup I smell?" she teased.
"Yep! Mama's making it!" Amara puffed out her little chest, proud of the grand announcement.
Lamberra ruffled her hair. "Then we better not keep her waiting."
She followed Amara through the low doorway. The beams always forced her to duck. Their home was cramped, worn thin by life, but the kitchen… the kitchen had always been the warmest part of it. The scent of simmering tomatoes mingled with woodsmoke, threading comfort through the small space.
Her mother stood at the hearth, stirring the pot with slow, deliberate motions. Selma Evermoore had once been striking. She still was. Just in a quieter, waning way. The hardships of the slums had carved soft lines into her face and set shadows beneath her warm brown eyes. Her dark hair, streaked heavily with gray, was twisted back into a loose knot.
She looked up when Lamberra entered, a soft smile lighting her tired features.
"Finally decided to join us?" She said warmly, moving past what happened earlier.
"Blame Amara," Lamberra grinned. "She's the one who let me sleep."
"Troublemaker," Selma teased, affection warming each syllable.
"Not true!" Amara protested, swiping a piece of bread off the table like a little thief. She shoved a bite into her mouth and scampered away, giggling.
Lamberra laughed, taking the ladle her mother handed her. The smell rising from the pot was heavenly; herbs and slow-roasted tomatoes, warm and familiar. She stirred, letting the motion steady her thoughts.
They gathered at the uneven table. Its wood had been smoothed by hands and years, aged to every meal, every struggle, every whispered hope shared across it.
Amara filled the air with chatter with bubbling unfiltered joy. She spoke of everything at once: barking dogs, birds too small to name, clouds shaped like crowns or dragons or fat little ponies. Her laughter was bright enough to make the sagging walls feel less suffocating.
For a moment, Lamberra let herself sink into it. But her gaze kept going back to Mama. Selma's hands shook with each lift of the spoon. Her breaths came slower, heavier. The shadows beneath her eyes looked deeper today, carved by worry and exhaustion that never seemed to relent.
Lamberra's chest tightened. "Mama?" The word slipped out in a whisper.
Selma looked up, smile still soft. "Yes, honey?"
Lamberra hesitated. But the idea had been pressing against her ribs all day. "I would've spent the last of our crowns today if it wasn't for Mister Finch," she confessed. "So I've been thinking, mauve… I should try for a job at the castle. A maid, or something. It would help. You wouldn't have to work so hard."
"No." The word rang through the kitchen like iron striking stone.
Lamberra blinked. "Mama, I'm not a child anymore. Finch barely pays enough to keep us fed. And the garden we have-"
"Good." Selma's jaw tightened. "Then you can help in the garden. We will make it work."
"We both know we won't," Lamberra muttered sharply. The words slipped free before she could stop them.
Silence crashed down. Amara's smile vanished, her bright eyes darting anxiously between them.
Lamberra pushed back her chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. "Well," she said tightly, "I'm leaving. That gives the two of you more food."
"Lamberra." Selma's voice was low, firm, almost pleading. She reached out, her grip circling Lamberra's arm. "Don't do anything stupid again."
Lamberra met her gaze. Dark eyes against dark eyes. Hurt simmered beneath her along with confusion.
She pulled her arm free without a word. Then she stepped outside, letting the door close behind her with a soft, aching thud.