Zylan sat on the velvet sofa, his long legs elegantly crossed. His posture exuded the composed grace he was known for, yet his neutral expression betrayed no emotion. The room, bathed in the warm glow of the firelight, was silent save for the occasional crackle from the fireplace. The faint sound seemed amplified in the oppressive quiet, filling the space like a thunderstorm brooding in the distance, its power waiting to erupt.
The stillness was heavy, as though the very air had thickened, pressing against the walls and those within them.
Across from him, the lady sat stiffly, her posture upright and rigid, her gaze distant as though lost in another world. Her fingers, delicate and pale, brushed the edge of her dark cloak—a movement so subtle it might have gone unnoticed if not for its frequency. The gesture betrayed her unease, the nervous energy that buzzed beneath her composed exterior.
