From the archway's shadow, Mireilla stood frozen.
Not from fear.
But from recognition.
That… wasn't normal.
Killing intent wasn't something she'd only read about. She'd felt it before—real, razor-sharp intent from mercenaries, from cutthroats, from the assassins that stalked border towns when coin got tight and disappearances were explained with shrugs.
But this?
This wasn't intent.
This was weight.
The pressure Lucavion had let slip into the ring… it hadn't merely startled her. It had settled in her gut, like a predator's shadow curling along her ribs. Her fingers were still curled against the stone edge beside her, knuckles white, breath shallow.
He wasn't aiming it at me.
And I still felt it.
Not as a pulse.
Not as a wave.
But as a certainty.
That if he had wanted Elayne dead… she would've stopped breathing before she even realized it.
And he'd done it casually. Like someone flexing a muscle in passing.
Her eyes flicked back to the ring.
