"Then you are weak." The words slipped out soft as falling petals, yet they struck like frost.
A few councilors inhaled quickly. Even Calwen's steady hand trembled around the quartz rod.
Nyshala lifted her gaze at last. Her voice, though gentle, carried. "The Saintess follows the Tree, not her whims. And the Tree has spoken with patience. So must we."
Myria felt grateful, if only for a heartbeat—but she could see Nyshala's vine dimming, buds curling protectively. Defiance had a cost.
Thiralei sat back, folding her hands. The scarlet blooms along her vine grew darker still. Above, lightning flickered, and the atrium's shadows quivered like startled birds.
