“Of my status?” Layala started. “Which is?” “A low-born orphan elf who got my husband killed searching for her!” A vein throbbed on Orlandia’s temple, and she gripped her napkin so hard her knuckles turned white. The room was tensely silent. Layala leaned away from Orlandia, who stared at her with white-hot rage. “Need I remind you why I am an orphan? Don’t expect me to feel remorse for your husband.” Layala pushed her chair back and threw her napkin on the table. She wouldn’t sit here with these people any longer.
