Maelor Vantheos walked into the infirmary the way Maelor Vantheos walked into every room: like he'd been personally invited by the architecture.
His eyes swept the scene with the clinical efficiency of a man who processed information the way other people processed oxygen.
Alaric, working. Serena, dripping. Three Alphas standing around a bed like bouncers at the world's most stressful nightclub. Two of whom were possessed. Two were also radiating a magical frequency that made the hair on his arms stand up.
His gaze landed on Dexmon and stayed there two seconds longer than casual.
Something was off. The posture was wrong. The stillness was wrong. Dexmon Drakenfell did not stand like that. Dexmon Drakenfell stood like a man who owned the room and wanted everyone to know it. This version was standing like a man who had built the room.
Maelor's eyes narrowed a fraction. He stored it. Moved on.
