Azaliyah’s face went profoundly still in the dangerous, deceptive way storms do right before the sky rips open. She stepped forward until she stood entirely ahead of Misha, her shoulders squared, the vibrant violet light humming and pulsing over her skin like a second coat of armor.
“I am eight and ten years old,” she said, her voice rising in a sharp, clear arc that cut effortlessly across the entire length of the courtyard. “Eight and ten. So where the hell was all this grand concern for regional balance over the past several years while I was standing right there under your nose in Urella?”
Her violet eyes locked onto Varos, completely unblinking now, stripping away decades of his carefully cultivated political shields.
“Where was this sudden urgency when I was old enough to realize
