Just then, the bound assassin let out a mocking laugh. He raised his head slowly. His breathing was shallow and uneven, his chest barely rising beneath his dark, torn clothing. Dirt, sweat, and dried blood covered his pale cheeks. Yet, despite his beaten state, his eyes were bright with anger and defiance.
Camilla turned her head to look at him. She did not flinch, nor did she show any hesitation.
She took a few slow, steady steps toward the iron cell. Her slippers made soft, whispering sounds against the rough stone floor.
When she reached the front of his wooden chair, she stopped. She looked down at his bruised, dirty face. As she studied him closely, she noticed something small at the right corner of his lips.
It was a tiny smirk.
Even tied to a chair, bleeding from his wounds, and trapped deep inside a dark dungeon, the man held a look of quiet arrogance. He looked up at her as if he believed he was in complete control of the situation.
