When Mische and Raihn left, Oraya watched me like a cat watches a bird flitting in the rafters. Her silver eyes were sharp as the blades she carried—even here, in the bowels of her own castle. One of them sat on the table between us, the carvings along its length glowing red. Eventually, she spoke. “Raihn won’t say it, but it needs to be said, so I will.” She dug the tip of her blade into the table and leaned across it. “You’re welcome here as long as Mische says you should be. But let’s be clear. If you ever hurt her, in any sense, I will peel your skin off and make you eat it.” She said it
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