The air in the grand parlor shattered under the sound of Lyra’s feral shriek.
In her past life, Evelyn would have frozen in terror, weeping as cold iron found her flesh. But this was not her past life. Every drop of blood shed in the cold tower, every lesson carved into her soul by betrayal, had turned her reflexes into honed steel.
As Lyra lunged across the polished floorboards—the dark, poisoned edge of the dagger gleaming inches from her throat—Evelyn did not flinch.
With a movement as precise and fluid as a master dancer, Evelyn stepped off the low wooden pedestal, pivoting her body sideways. The curved blade sliced uselessly through empty air, catching only a thin strand of the sweeping crimson velvet train hanging from Evelyn’s shoulders.
Before Lyra could regain her balance
