They finished their soup in a heavy silence, the clinking of spoons against earthenware sounding like pickaxes striking a grave. The red-haired servant returned, like an efficient ghost with pale hands, to clear the empty bowls.
She left behind her a trail of cold indifference and a fleeting scent of harsh soap. Around them, the inn lived in muffled tones: hushed whispers, the scrape of a chair, a sigh from a customer leaning on his elbows. A scene of normalcy that felt off—like a spider's web stretched over a chasm.
It was in this hushed quiet that Élisa turned her gaze on Dylan. Her eyes, storm-grey like a North Sea squall, pierced the gloom and locked onto his, clear and commanding. No more teasing, no more morning lethargy. A naked blade.
"Do we do it in your room?" Her voice was clear, sharp, deliberately loud. She didn't care about ears that might be listening or eyes that might turn. It was an order dressed as a question. A call to immediate motion.
