"And he fixed that with magic. Changed my scent, so I could stand in his court without being spat on." She looked away, her voice dropping lower. "But no matter what he changes, he can’t change the truth of what I was born."
Mariabeth tilted her head, studying Lisa with those too-perceptive eyes that always seemed to strip away titles and crowns.
"Then why," she asked softly, "do you still try to make him proud if he hates what you were?"
The question struck Lisa like a thrown blade—quick, silent, impossible to dodge.
Maevya, fidgeting with the stones, mumbled, "Maybe because if you stop trying, it means he is right. And if he is… we all lose this argument."
Lisa’s throat tightened. She wanted to tell them they were wrong, that she didn’t care what Ortiz Ortega thought of her anymore—
