Angel is in my arms as I walk down the hallway.
His body trembles—light, fragile, too light—and every step I take makes my anger settle deeper into my bones. Servants line the corridor.
Their heads are bowed, eyes widened but quickly lowered, fear stitched into their posture. No one dares to look for long. They can feel it—the shift in the air, the crack in Zyren Kael's usual calm.
My face is cold. Controlled. But inside, something burns.
Zyke has a problem with me. So why drag innocent people into it?
I wanted to fix things. I wanted peace. But he—
I stop that thought before it turns sharp.
Angel's lips tremble as if he wants to speak, to stop me, to apologize for something he never did. But he doesn't dare. Not here. Not like this.
"Bring warm water. And towels," I say without looking at anyone.
One servant bows deeply and rushes away.
