Cyrus looked at Kian, and Kian looked back at Cyrus, the quiet between them heavy as a drawn bow. They stood amid the cleared dishes and the tail end of steam, two men carved from different storms staring over the same problem.
"Why did you even accept him in the first place," Cyrus asked, voice calm but edged, "knowing how much she hated him?"
Kian's gaze slid toward the doorway Zyran had stormed through. The blue of his eyes cooled, thoughtful. "Would you rather keep your opponent far and grope in fog for his next move," he said, "or keep him close and watch every breath he takes?"
Cyrus held that for a beat. The answer was obvious when stated like that. Kian hadn't accepted Zyran for convenience or friendship; he'd accepted him for Isabella. For her safety. For their sanity. A menace under the roof is still a menace—but at least you hear his footsteps at night.
