They were wearing mad dresses— not uniforms. Not armor. Dresses. Battle dresses. Leather and steel and cloth, the garments of women who fight in clothes that were not designed for fighting. Each one held a sword. The blades were different— long, short, curved, straight. Each blade was sharp. Each blade was ready.
They blinked.
The adjustment of eyes that have just passed through a rift. The disorientation of a body that has been teleported. The brief, momentary confusion. Then— clarity. They looked around. At the room. At the blood. At the bodies. At the dragon woman. At Vess. At the Crown Prince.
Their faces were calm. Determined. The faces of women who have been trained. Who have been prepared. Who know what they are here to do.
The Crown Prince stared.
His body was shaking. His hands were white— gripping the cracked wall, the fingers digging into the plaster. His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. He could not speak. He could not move. He could only watch.
