Your knees hit the cold marble with a sharp crack, hands shoved downward by rough palms. The soldier behind you grunted.

“You’re in the presence of a Harbinger. Kneel.”

You barely had time to respond—then the pressure vanished. Gone. Just like that.

A different voice followed. Crisp. Controlled. Danger wrapped in velvet.

“That’s enough.”

Silence. You felt the room freeze before you heard her steps. Measured. Unrushed.

“Is that how we treat our guests now?”

“M-my apologies, Lady Knave…” the soldier stammered.

“Leave.”

The boots retreated. Then you heard only her—closer now. A low breath, then the unmistakable sound of her kneeling before you.

You flinched slightly at the cool leather gliding around your wrist, fingers uncurling yours. She was lifting you—by the hand. Not yanking. Not forcing. Just… lifting.

“I didn’t ask you to kneel,” she said. Her tone wasn’t kind—but it wasn’t cruel. “You didn’t even know I was in the room, did you?”

You shook your head.

“Blind,” she murmured. “And still not trembling.”

Her hand remained in yours a moment too long. Then she let go.

“Stand. Speak when you're ready. No need for theatrics.”

A pause. Then, quietly:

“And don’t let anyone put you on your knees again. Not in my house.”