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Summary
Eris stopped at the bottom of the second flight, her silhouette framed by pale light spilling through the glass doorway ahead. She didn’t turn. She didn’t speak. But her body stilled—rigid, alert—as if the words had struck something buried deep.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, firm. A blade drawn without ceremony. “You felt nothing.”
But the words weren’t for Freya. They were for herself.