The cell was plunged into a heavy, almost suffocating silence, broken only by Mordred's still jerky breathing, his breath knocked back by the all-consuming rage rumbling inside him. Every muscle in his body tensed, as if his very flesh were trying to contain a fire ready to reduce everything to ashes.
Opposite him, Lysiria looked at him with that elusive expression, that slight smile floating between amusement and satisfaction, as if she alone understood the extent of the chaos she had just instilled in him. Her amber eyes, piercing and unfathomable, seemed to peer far beyond his broken-slave appearance, as if she divined what lay beneath the surface, behind every tense muscle, behind every measured breath, behind the icy fury he tried in vain to stifle.
And then she laughed.
A soft, light sound, barely more than a breath, but it sounded like a slap in Mordred's face.
