Oliver stared back at Vamira. Standing in the middle of her room, his clothes sopping wet, he found suddenly that he did not know where to begin.
“You’re a Tyrant.” He had meant it to come out as some kind of question. But he realized that he still needed to hear it from her again. He still did not quite believe it.
Vamira’s easy smile faded. She met his eyes, her back straight and proud. “Yes,” she said.
Oliver nodded and looked away, swallowing. “How?” he asked. “How did you end up as...” He did not know how to finish that thought. ‘As someone so evil?’ Of course he could not say something like that to her. He did not believe it for a moment, anyway.
But still, she was a Tyrant. He had to understand her reasons.
Vamira sat on the edge of her bed, which sighed quietly beneath her weight. “I’m not sure I know how to answer that, Oliver,” she said. “You call me a Tyrant, just like all the Crownseekers do. It’s a word meant to inspire fear in people – and hatred.”