"Let's start with what you call control."
Freya keeps the glass between her fingers without drinking. The pale wine catches the low light of the private room, but her face gives away almost nothing. That's one of the dangerous things about her. Freya doesn't hide her emotions the way frightened people do. She hides them the way you learn to when any crack, found early enough, gets used as a lever.
"Control," she repeats. "You say it like you found a forbidden word in Thirstfall, when it's used every day."
"No. It's just a convenient word."
She tilts her head, and the red hair slides over one shoulder, too immaculate for someone who spent the afternoon trying to open people with an ice scythe. There's still tiredness under the beauty. Not much. Enough to notice if you look for it on purpose.
I notice, and I press there.
