LYRE
There's a special joy that comes from watching someone who once stood tall crumble into terrified submission. Owen—all six-foot-something of Order-aligned angelic muscle—keeps flinching whenever I so much as breathe in his direction. It's adorable, really.
He's young. Strangely young. Maybe mid-twenties at best. Seems odd, considering his bloodline, but I'm not about to ask. Knowing means involving, and involving means work.
No, thank you.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out while maintaining eye contact with Owen, just to watch him swallow nervously. Poor thing. I'd only turned him into a toad for a few seconds. Just enough to make sure he didn't run away.
Didn't think it would bother him this much, but it is a delightful bonus.
The text on my screen makes me roll my eyes.
[CAINE: Why aren't you answering your phone? This is just an empty building. Where are you??]
The digital equivalent of a wolf's howl.
Sighing, I turn to Owen. "Do they need a key?"
