The armor wasn’t ironclad or forged in fire. It was made of layered cloth and hardened leather, designed for flexibility, not war. Still, it felt heavy, too heavy. As Mary tightened the final strap across my waist, her hands trembled uncontrollably, the tears spilling from her lashes like falling glass.
“Please,” she choked out, voice cracking under the weight of her grief. “You don’t have to do this. There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t,” I whispered.
She collapsed to her knees, clutching at my leg like a child. “She’ll kill you, my princess. She’ll butcher you out there.” Her shoulders shook with each sob.
Isabel stood near the door, arms crossed, her lips pressed in a hard, bitter line. She hadn’t shed a single tear. But her eyes, those dark, stormy eyes burned with sadness,fu
