Fremilde tried to rise. Valia was already there. A knee to her ribs, a fist to her jaw, each strike deliberate, punishing. Fremilde’s song withered into broken gasps, her once-perfect face a ruin of bruises and blood, her eyes swollen to slits of pitiful light.
“Stop! Stop. I’ll give you anything—anything!”
Valia grabbed her by the hair, yanking her up to meet her gaze. “You don’t own anything to give.”
Fremilde’s hands trembled. “I can serve you—serve the dragons—”
“You already did,” Valia said. “your ruin shall be my message to every fool who dares mistake me for prey.”
One final strike, swift and clean, landed on Fremilde's face. She fell, crumpling into the water with a dull splash. The fight was over.
Valia straightened, chest heaving. The cave fell quiet except for the soft dri
