The prisoner glared at her with a hatred so potent it almost felt physical like the air in the cell had thickened with it.
His wrists were chained to the stone wall behind him, but there was nothing cowed in his posture. He sat upright, defiant, blood dried at the corner of his mouth from whatever scuffle he'd had with the guards earlier.
"You," he spat again, as if the word tasted foul. "You demon bitch. You've twisted her. You think no one notices what you've done? How you've corrupted our princess with your poison?"
Malvoria didn't flinch.
She simply stood there, calm and tall, her crimson cloak whispering as it settled around her boots. The dim light of the torch sconces made her eyes gleam gold like the edges of a blade.
She said nothing at first.
Let him spew.
Let him dig his own hole.
