"…is a woman who did not die during childbirth or was never able to bear a child, and so they were turned into human slaves."
Luna froze.
Her fork stopped midway to her lips, grilled meat trembling slightly at the tip. The warmth of the food had vanished. The noise—the cheering, the clinking of cutlery, the laughter of the celebrating werewolves—blurred into white static.
It all faded, drowned beneath the sudden surge of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
She blinked once. Twice. Slowly turned to look at Ravhiel, who had just spoken as if he were discussing the weather.
"…What?" Her voice was quiet, almost gentle, but it carried a cold seriousness, laced with disbelief.
'Human slaves…? And wait… what the hell did he just say?'
"A woman who… did not die during childbirth?" she repeated slowly, her brows furrowing as if she needed the words to make sense if she said them out loud.
Because she had to be wrong. She wanted to be wrong.
