The maids' fingers never lingered longer than necessary. Once their task was complete, they withdrew with the same quiet precision, retreating into the palace corridors until it was as though they had never existed at all.
Bruce reached for the cup without hesitation. No suspicion. No caution.
His fingers closed around the porcelain, warmth seeping into his palm in sharp contrast to the frost-laced air. He lifted it and took a slow sip, letting the taste settle.
Bitter. Strong and Well-made.
If there was poison in it, it would have meant nothing to him anyway.
As he drank, his gaze never left Empress Isolde.
And through Life Glance, the illusion shattered.
Her soul was there.
Or rather… what remained of it.
