She steps forward then, every gaze snapping to her. The dress clings to her in a way I long to, eyes sweep over the crowd that I now desperately wish I was in. She is striking in the most formidable of ways. Sharp like the pointed stare she gives, the tongue I’ve tasted, the end of her dagger that’s worn my blood. The words that leave her lips are stern, possessing the subtlety that anger lacks. “I know I am not who you want as your queen. In fact, I did not ask for this. I’ve dreamed of nothing in this life except to survive it.” Her gaze travels around the room, bright and bold. “But I do
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