"Where are you going, beauty?" the soldier's voice rang out, thick with arrogance and a twisted amusement that made Jessamyn's skin crawl.
Her heart thudded in her chest, but she forced herself to maintain control. Beneath the bag she clutched to her belly, her hand was wrapped tightly around her hidden crossbow, her fingers trembling only slightly. She was terrified—her breath shallow and her senses heightened—but she knew better than to show weakness in front of an enemy, especially this one.
"How are you still alive after losing to a woman's handkerchief?" Jessamyn sneered, her words cutting through the darkness with sharp precision. Her voice was laced with disdain, calculated to dig deep into the soldier's wounded pride. "What I heard was right—Altanians have no honor, no shame. They must have gathered just whoever they could find to fight. Were you stripped of your previous titles? Or do they still let you parade around like a fool in armor?"
