The moment Cyrus pushed aside the thick curtain of stitched hide covering the entrance, the musty scent of damp stone and stale air wafted toward them like an ominous welcome. A soft torch flickered inside, casting shadows that danced strangely across the uneven walls.
And then—there he was.
Asael.
Standing just near the foot of the bed, arms crossed and expression sharp with suspicion, like he'd been guarding some hidden treasure.
He didn't even have time to blink before Isabella whisper-shouted like a toddler seeing a cockroach, "Him! Him! Do him too!"
Her voice, loud enough to carry but still weirdly hushed, was frantic as she turned to Cyrus, clutching Glimora closer like a shield.
Even Glimora, who was still half-curled and wide-eyed in Isabella's arms, mimicked her by flicking her tail toward Asael, ears flattening.
Cyrus gave his usual nod—obedient, expression unreadable—and turned to the poor man.
