There—just behind her—stood a man. She didn't recognize him immediately. His frame was partially hidden in the shadows, but his tone was far too casual for someone who just snuck into a death room.
Isabella clutched Glimora tighter and used her other hand to grip Cyrus' hand like a scared child pretending not to be scared.
Cyrus was already in front of her, magic humming faintly in his fingers.
Isabella, ever so Isabella, still had the guts to glare over his shoulder.
"Um, excuse me, do you normally eavesdrop on grieving women? Do you pop out of shadows like a creepy vine and ask questions like a narrator?"
The man raised a brow.
"I was just checking."
Isabella huffed. "Check your manners instead."
Even Glimora squeaked in agreement.
She glanced back at Shelia's body. That flicker of helplessness returned—but now it was tucked under a layer of resolve. No matter what. She wasn't leaving this place without trying. Without doing something.
She straightened.
