The crowd roared.
Metheea leaned forward, elbows resting on the stone, her attention sharp and contained. The sound pressed against her ears, layered and uneven, but it did little to distract her from the silence beside her.
Azrayel had not spoken since they took their seats.
Not a word. Not even a glance.
He sat rigidly at her side, posture formal, presence heavy, the kind of silence that demanded awareness. It made her painfully conscious of her own stillness, of how carefully she held herself, how little she allowed herself to move. Every shift of weight felt deliberate. Every breath measured.
She wished, not for the first time, that they had not met today.
Yesterday lingered between them, unresolved and unwanted, but responsibility did not care for timing. The final round required both of them. The crown demanded it. So they sat together, stiff and proper, sharing a space neither of them seemed comfortable occupying.
