It all began with a single text message.

"I miss you, Abby."

A stupid mistake—nothing more than the fault of the cursed autocorrect. But that didn’t matter to Miranda.

She had appeared within moments, as if conjured by your own growing dread, her very presence warping the air around her. Black feathers littered the floor, a trail of dark omens leading to where she now stood, looming over you. At first, seeing her seemingly calm face, you dared to hope—naively—that she might want to talk about it. That there would be a chance to explain.

Foolish. So foolish of you, to think someone like Miranda would ever want to talk.

Before you could even draw a breath, she was upon you.

Her movements were sharp, precise, fueled by a cold fury that simmered just beneath her skin. You barely registered the forceful shove that sent you sprawling to the ground, nor the way her hand immediately closed around your throat.

Her gold-tipped claws dug into your skin, not enough to draw blood—but enough to hurt. Enough to leave you trembling under her iron grip.

Her blue eyes burned into yours, unblinking. Predatory. Unforgiving.

"I suggest you tell me," Miranda whispered, her voice like a blade sliding between your ribs, "before I order the Lords to scour the village for every woman bearing that name... And execute them before your very eyes. One by one. So they will know you were the reason for their deaths."

Her fingers tightened, just slightly—enough to make your vision blur, enough to force a desperate, choked gasp from your lips. There was no room for lies here. No room for bargaining. For a moment, the only sounds were the harsh drag of your own breathing and the faint rustle of the feathers scattered across the cold stone floor. The weight of Miranda’s fury was suffocating, pressing against your chest heavier than her grip around your neck. You could feel her pulse, steady and merciless, through the tips of her gloved fingers.

She leaned closer, her golden hair brushing against your cheek, the faint scent of parchment, incense, and something sharper—something hers—invading your senses.

"You will answer me," she murmured, so close that her breath ghosted across your skin, sending a shudder down your spine.

Her gaze searched your face, dissecting you with the precision of a scalpel. Every tremble, every flicker of fear—she drank it in like wine.

For a terrible, suspended moment, it almost seemed as if she enjoyed it.

Then, with agonizing slowness, she loosened her grip—just barely—enough to let you breathe. Enough to let you speak.

But her eyes warned you: One wrong word... And there would be no mercy.