180

The air was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the skin like a second layer. Enara sat rigidly on the edge of her chair, her fingers gripping the armrests with white-knuckled force. Across from her, Daena stood by the window, arms crossed, her expression carved from stone. Ananara, for once, wasn't making a sarcastic comment. He sat on the table, unnervingly quiet, his leafy form unusually still.

No one had spoken in several minutes.

They had escaped. Barely. But the memory of her—Liria, but not Liria—was seared into their minds.

"I still can't believe it," Enara finally whispered, her voice raw. "She—" She swallowed, forcing down the lump in her throat. "She was going to kill us."

"She would have," Daena said flatly. "She wasn't holding back."

Enara's jaw clenched. "But that wasn't really her, was it? I mean—" She glanced between them, desperate for something, anything that made sense. "She wouldn't—"