"Young master, why are you here in my living quarters this late? If you needed something, you could've simply asked the servants. There was no need for you to come all the way here."
Zoey's voice was smooth, polite even—but the expression on his face betrayed the lie. Shadows flickered across his features, and for an instant, his smile looked more like a wound. There was a faint tremor beneath his skin, as though something inside him was struggling to hold its shape.
Zarek's eyes narrowed to slits. His heartbeat quickened, not from fear, but from instinct. His body was already preparing itself for the inevitable. The air itself felt heavier, thick with an unseen hostility that pressed against his skin.
Beside him, Zerin tensed. Her pupils contracted, her hand inching toward the hilt of her blade. She had lived too long among killers and corpses not to recognize the scent of death. The miners surrounding them weren't watching out of curiosity—they were waiting.
