Elara had learned the house's silences.
Which corridors whispered.
Which doors listened.
Which pauses meant leave.
This one meant stay.
She did not turn when Alessandro entered. The firelight shifted, that was all—its breath drawn tighter, as if the room itself had braced.
"You're pacing," he said.
"I'm thinking," she replied. "Try not to interrupt."
A dry sound left him. Not laughter. Something sharper.
"Thinking usually involves escape routes."
She glanced at him then. "And you usually block them."
He stopped.
That was new.
"Go to hell," she muttered, not cruelly—just tired.
"Elara—"
"No," she cut in. "Don't start with explanations. I've had enough of those to last a lifetime."
She turned fully now, arms folded, chin high in that infuriating way that made him feel—every damn time—like he was standing on thin ice pretending it was stone.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she said.
He didn't answer.
Her eyes narrowed. "Huh. So I'm not imagining it. What a relief."
