Beside Valentina, Morwenna Nightwing, a woman whose reputation was built on a foundation of unshakable composure and icy defiance, had collapsed.
She had lowered herself onto one knee with the mechanical inevitability of a marionette whose strings had been yanked by an unseen hand. When her conscious mind finally caught up to her body's treasonous movement, she didn't fight it.
She didn't reach for her sword or attempt to reclaim her dignity. She simply remained there, frozen, because her instincts had made a far more accurate assessment of the situation than her pride ever could.
Her body knew what her mind refused to acknowledge: they were not standing in the presence of a guest; they were standing in the presence of the Host.
'This isn't power,' Morwenna thought, her knuckles white where they pressed against the stone. 'This is... inevitability.'
