Sitri’s eyes flickered. For a fraction of a second, the amused predator vanished, and something ancient and curious peered out. “Better how? Stronger? Faster? Immortal?” She crouched, bringing her face level with Elara’s. The scent of night-blooming jasmine and heated skin filled the girl’s lungs. “I can give you all of that. I can make you a queen of cinders and screams. But ‘better’ is a mortal word, little witch. It implies a moral scale.”