"Freya?"
The name slipped out of Wang Xiao's mouth before his brain bothered to stop it.
The woman by the stone platform froze.
Not dramatically, not like a rookie.
Just a microscopic pause, muscle memory from years of drills, combat reflexes snapping awake.
Her eyes lifted, that's what caught him first.
Burnt-earth brown, layered with a thin green-blue sheen, like cold northern seas trapped under frozen soil. Eyes that had measured kill-zones, escape routes, casualty ratios.
Not ornamental elegance, but lethally soft.
Trained, alert, and dangerous.
Crimson hair spilled down her back, loosely tied, the kind of careless restraint soldiers adopt when they expect blood, not mirrors. She wore red, not silk, not vanity, fabric threaded with gold sigils, reinforcement runes sewn where arteries and joints mattered most.
Combat wear?
Queen's colors, soldier's cut.
Beautiful, yes.
But guarded to the bone.
