Aralyn's hand shook as she pressed the dagger toward Isabella's skin, but the steel would not find flesh. The blade hovered like a question between them; her fingers trembled, not from fear but from a sudden, dizzying ache that had nothing to do with the metal.
She looked at the Dowager, at the once-fearless Isabella, who had ruled with iron and commanded rooms into silence, and for the first time saw not a sovereign but a woman hollowed by years.
"So, you'd look this defeated facing death," Aralyn scoffed. "Why aren't you shouting for your men? Why aren't you doing anything? Have you given up on living?"
The words landed hard in the corridor, echoing off the stone. Isabella's shoulders sagged as if the light itself weighed upon her; the afternoon light of the sun made the shadow under her eyes look like bruises. Once she had moved through halls crowned with obeisance; now she seemed like the falling sun, spent and slow.
