Malvoria had always known rage.
She had grown up with it tucked between her ribs, sharpened into her bones. Rage was familiar. Useful. Predictable.
But what surged through her now was something else. Something colder than fury, hotter than hellfire. It had no name.
Because Elysia had been hurt.
She saw the blood first. The thin line staining her lover's tunic, vivid against the dark fabric. It wasn't deep. It wasn't fatal. But it should never have happened.
Zera stood ten paces away, red eyes glowing like cursed embers, ice magic coiling around her boots, the scent of winter thick in the corridor.
"Just shut up, Elysia. I do not care about you now. Just die already."
The words were a blade sharper than the one she wielded.
Malvoria stepped forward.
Elysia grabbed her wrist. "Wait—"
"No," Malvoria said, voice flat. "You're injured."
"I can still fight—"
"I said no."
Elysia froze.
Because Malvoria wasn't just angry.
She was cold. Controlled. Focused.
That was worse.
