Martha lingered in the shadows of the packhouse corridor, fingers tracing the smooth wooden railing absentmindedly as she watched Freya walk past the training grounds. The girl’s gait was steady, almost casual, but Martha could see the tension coiled beneath it. She knew that look well—she had worn it herself many times in the past.
"Why am I even feeling this way?" she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. "She’s just a girl. Someone to observe. Nothing more."
For days, Martha had been Selene’s eyes and ears, the spy planted to observe Freya and report back. It had seemed simple enough at first: befriend the newcomer, learn what she could about her background, and feed Selene the information to reinforce her subtle manipulation. But over time, what had begun as a simple mission h
