The room smelled of rain and old stone—truth waiting too long to be spoken.
Elara stood by the window, arms crossed, watching Regina darken under a bruised sky. The torches below flickered like uncertain witnesses. She didn't turn when Alessandro entered. She didn't need to.
"You're pacing," he said.
"I'm standing," she replied. "It's you who keeps circling."
He stopped. The silence stretched—taut, brittle.
"Tsk," she muttered. "Say it. Whatever speech you rehearsed in your head, just—say it."
"I didn't rehearse," he said.
She laughed softly. "That makes it worse."
He stepped closer. Not too close. Never too close anymore. That distance had become its own language—punishment disguised as restraint.
"Elara," he began, voice low, careful. "What happened last night—"
"Was not an accident," she cut in. "Don't insult me by pretending it was."
His jaw tightened. "It was not intended."
