The slipper hits the marble with a crack that echoes through the stunned throne room. She's swaying - from blood loss or sheer stubbornness, I can't tell. My cloak is already against her ruined feet when I realize her fingers are digging into my forearm hard enough to bruise. Not clinging. Pushing. I've seen men faint from lesser wounds, while this ordinary woman stands like she'll walk out on that butchered feet just to spite us all. I tightened the pressure, yet she doesn't flinch.
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