I trembled, rage shaking my bones.
Then Myrielle rose with false grace, her tone dripping honey.
“Don’t be upset, Lunessa. They’re only teasing.”
But she lifted her moon-crystal communicator, pressing record, her voice turning sweet and venomous.
“You don’t mind if I take a little record, right? Last time you nearly accused me of trying to kill you and that really harmed my standing. I think it’s only fair to clear things up.”
Her eyes gleamed coldly. “The healing ritual wasn’t my fault. But your father’s outburst—and your behavior—that’s what caused trouble for me.”
My blood turned to ice. To her, my grandmother’s life, my father’s broken leg—meant nothing. Only her reputation mattered.
Her friends stepped closer, laughter curling like smoke.
“How can a denborn wear the same gown as Myrielle? Let’s help her remove it.”
“I don’t need your help!” I screamed, clutching the fabric, but they were stronger.
The gown tore. Cold air hit my bare skin.
Then the chamber went dead silent.
“Oh gods—what’s on her back?”
“Those look like burn scars… and blade marks.”
“No wonder Draven doesn’t want her. Look at that ruined body.”
Humiliation scorched me raw. My breath shook; my blood roared in my ears.