Sir Merek turned one of the vials between his fingers, unimpressed. "A salve with marigold and nettle—who taught you that? A village midwife?"
Brother Alden sniffed again and shook his head. "So many sweet roots. And is that... nightshade? Dangerous combinations. Unless you enjoy rolling the dice with people's lives."
Tomas looked up from his notes, hesitant but curious. "Apologies, my lady, but… did you really make these yourself? Or are you merely lending your name to someone else's work?"
A small, uncomfortable silence followed. Damon's jaw tensed. Olivia said nothing. She only looked at the three men, then lowered her eyes to the vials they had mocked.
And then—she took a breath.
Something in her shifted. Her shoulders squared. Her eyes lifted and she looked no longer gentle, but sharp as broken glass.
When she spoke, her voice was steady. Cold. Unapologetic.
