A few minutes later, the sound of steady footsteps crunched over dry leaves and packed earth.
Kian.
Even before he reached the hut, his eyes locked with Cyrus. There was no greeting, no shift in expression—only a brief flicker of narrowed disdain, like a beast silently warning another off its territory.
The tension was quiet, oppressive, and immediate.
Kian didn't slow his pace. He simply walked past the still figure of Cyrus, not offering even a flicker of acknowledgement. Behind him came Asael, ever silent, ever unreadable. The younger man looked confused, his gaze empty with a touch of reluctance, like someone dragged into a conflict he neither started nor understood.
Cyrus exhaled quietly.
He had no claim, no authority, no tie strong enough to demand entry into the small, quiet hut. And yet, how he wished—gods, he wished—he had been born Isabella's brother.
Not because he wanted it to be true.
But because if he were, then no one would dare to stop him from being near her.
