Azrael, with an almost ethereal grace, shook his head and effortlessly slipped into her room, navigating the narrow passage between the window and the interior before landing on his feet with the finesse of a seasoned performer. Casually strolling past her, he approached the bed and settled into a cross-legged position, a perpetual grin playing on his lips as he fixed his gaze on Isolde.
Reacting to his uninvited presence, Isolde huffed in annoyance and rolled her eyes. Undeterred, Azrael raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in a manner that silently questioned her vexation.
"Get off my bed," Isolde ordered, her tone laced with a stern command.
