(Dear reader, watch now as the viper strikes... not with fangs, but with tears.)
Vetra stood with the grace of mourning itself, one hand pressed to her heart as though the weight of yesterday's losses physically pained her. Picture perfect grief, calculated down to the exact angle of her bowed head.
"Your Imperial Majesty," her voice trembled, each syllable quivering with what might have been genuine emotion if you didn't know better. "May I speak?"
Soren gestured with one hand, his expression carved from ice. "Of course, Regent."
Regent. Not "Stepmother." Not "Your Grace." Just the title, formal and distant as the space between stars. Vetra didn't miss it. Her eyes flickered briefly, registering the coldness, the deliberate removal of familial warmth.
Message received.
She turned to address the chamber, and reader, you should have seen the performance that unfolded.
