They circled her like carrion birds.
"No heir."
"No child."
"No purpose."
Each word was a jab, calculated and precise, aimed not at flesh but at the raw, festering wound inside her chest.
Syris's laughter cracked.
It slipped into something breathless, almost soundless, her fingers curling weakly against the stone as her vision swam.
"You hear that?" one maid said mockingly.
"She still thinks she matters."
"She doesn't," another replied flatly. "If she did, His Majesty wouldn't look at her like that."
A sharp kick landed against her hip.
"He married her for an heir," the maid went on. "And look at her. Month after month, nothing."
"Not even the decency to get pregnant," someone spat. "A real woman would have done it by now."
Syris swallowed hard.
Her laughter faltered, just for a moment and one of them noticed immediately.
"There it is," she said softly. "That's the face."
