(Elyra)
Humiliation was a kind of poison.
It did not kill you quickly. It seeped into your blood, a slow, cold venom that soured every word, every touch. Two days had passed since the Feast of Daggers, and Elyra still felt the sting of Queen Sirenyth's sneer, the weight of the court's pitying stares.
She stood on the balcony of her chambers, the morning air cool against her feverish skin. Beside her, Auren's voice was a low, earnest murmur of comfort that only made her feel worse.
"She had no right to speak to you that way," he said, his hand resting on the small of her back. "My father should have put her in her place."
"Your father enjoys the theater," Elyra replied, her voice brittle. "And Queen Sirenyth gave him a fine performance. As did you, my love. The noble, helpless husband, watching his barren wife beg for soldiers. It was all very tragic."
The hurt that flashed in his golden eyes gave her a sharp, ugly stab of satisfaction. "That is not fair, Elyra."
