"Metheea."
She didn't turn, though the sound of his voice followed her like a weight. She kept walking until the cooler air of the outer hall eased the tightness in her chest.
"Please."
Azrayel's steps slowed, but he didn't reach for her. He would never push her now, not after last night. The memory of it still pressed against her skin, sharp and unshakable, and the silence between them grew heavier with each pace.
She couldn't face him now, and she didn't know when she would be ready.
"Highness."
Fiona hurried forward with a cloak folded in her arms. She draped it over Metheea's shoulders before she could refuse while Kalistra and Resme stayed close.
"It's getting cold," Fiona said quietly. "Colder than Dythrid ever was… the weather there feels more balanced."
Metheea shot her a sharp look, signaling her to stop. Fiona's habit of speaking of Dythrid so openly felt like a constant reminder to everyone that she was not fully of Katarthan blood.
