Elysia's breath came slow and measured, though her heart was anything but calm. It pounded against her ribs like a war drum, each beat a frantic, desperate attempt to break free from the cage of her own body.
Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, barely perceptible, but she forced them into stillness, curling them into tight fists. Control. She needed control.
And yet, Malvoria's words slithered through the air, wrapping around her like invisible chains.
"You're my wife."
Not a question. Not an invitation for debate. Just a statement—calm, confident, unshakable. As if it had always been the truth. As if the universe itself had bent to Malvoria's will, rewriting Elysia's fate before she even had a chance to fight it.
And the worst part?
Malvoria was right.
No matter how much Elysia wanted to argue, to push back, to scream that this wasn't real, the truth had already taken root inside her.
