{IRIS}
Morgana frowned.
It was not the theatrical scowl of a villain displeased, nor the careless sneer of someone accustomed to victory. It was a frown sharpened by irritation rather than anger.
The sort of look one gave a puzzle that refused to be solved.
"For someone packless," she said at last, voice smooth and cold as polished obsidian, "unshifted and arcane-less, you fight remarkably well."
Her gaze slid over me with unsettling thoroughness, dissecting more than my movements—my posture, my breath, the way I favored my left side. She was cataloguing me. Measuring.
The thought sent a chill crawling down my spine.
"And those trinkets you carry," she continued. "Extraordinary." Her eyes lingered on the faint gleam at my throat, the necklace warm against my skin, pulsing faintly like a living thing.
Then her attention snapped to the blade in my hand, already slick with blood.
