Cyrus calmly turned toward the door, his movements unhurried, almost deliberate. Not a flicker of tension touched his face; it was as though he had expected the knock all along.
Where another might have stiffened or braced, he simply shifted, the loose fall of his hair catching the light as his gaze swept toward the sound.
There was no panic, no irritation—just that steady composure that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking, yet impossible to look away.
But no.
Not Zyran.
The broad-shouldered figure who stepped through wasn't wearing smugness or chaos like a cloak. It was calm, cool, collected.
It was Kian.
The moment Glimora realized, she froze mid-crouch, tail flicking twice before she released a loud huff. Her fur smoothed back down as if to say, Fine. You're not worth my claws. She turned her head away dramatically, practically pouting.
Isabella blinked at her little companion, then pressed her lips together, trying so hard not to laugh.
