Athelia knelt with her head bowed low, her wild, radiant hair cascading around her like a veil of fire and ice. The air felt heavy as the wives gathered around her, their expressions unreadable but their eyes sharp—piercing into her very soul.
"Who are you again, and why do you smell like Tia?" Clara asked, narrowing her eyes, her voice edged with suspicion.
"She also smells like Angitia," Carmen added, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
"She is..." Ethan began, but—
"Shut up!" they snapped in unison, cutting him off with the force of a collective storm.
"Okay. Geez," he muttered, raising his hands in surrender.
"Who are you?" Harley asked at last. Her tone was calm—calmer than the rest—but it carried weight. As the First Empress, she had learned to wield composure like a weapon. She was the eye of the storm, the anchor in the chaos.
Athelia slowly raised her head. Her eyes glimmered—deep, infinite pools of crimson and cerulean.
