I didn't survive a "Hotel California" mirror-loop just to blow it all on a dramatic reveal that might kill the actual Princess. If I called out Mila now, the shock alone would probably snap Milabuella like a dry twig.
"Patience, Seraphine," I whispered to myself, forcing my face into the most convincing 'I'm just a tired hero' mask I could manage.
I gave King Vael and Queen Luna a respectful, albeit dusty, bow. "Your Majesties, we have the heart of the problem. But the process is delicate. I need a private room for the Princess, away from the crowds. And I mean away. Only my team and the royal family."
Mila's eyes flickered. That sweet, sugary smile didn't reach her eyes, it just sat on her face like a bad paint job. "Of course, Seraphine. I'll help carry her—"
"No," I cut her off, my voice like iron. "Sir Alex will carry her. He's made of stone; he's got the steady hands. You stay with the Queen, Mila. You look worried."
