“Thorian,” she said quietly, “this place is peaceful. The air, the quiet… Danny would have liked it here.”
For a moment, something flickered across his face. But the instant his eyes landed on me, it vanished—replaced by something colder.
Annoyance. Indifference.
“Morwen,” he said sharply, “you just won’t stop, will you? First you cut me off, now this scene. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
He approached me with visible irritation, his expression laced with disdain.
I didn’t flinch.
“Move,” I said, my voice low and deadly, offering him nothing more.
Selindra moved closer, her steps measured, her presence composed. When she spoke, her voice was soft—too soft—like silk wrapped around a blade, as she addressed me through the private communication channel reserved for inner-circle members.
“Morwen,” she began, her tone laced with feigned sorrow, “my Danny passed unexpectedly… illness took him faster than we could prepare for. I was devastated, and I asked Don Thorian to stay with me. Please… don’t hold it against us.”