The words lingered between them like poison gas.
"I killed him."
Frey did not scream. She did not cry. Her body froze, as if the concept itself had robbed her muscles of permission to move. Her eyes stared forward, unfocused, as if she were trying to see a version of reality where Zylus had not just spoken those words.
"You're lying," she finally said.
Her voice was quiet, not defensive, but hollow. A statement made more out of instinct than belief.
Zylus stood still, arms relaxed at his sides. He did not soften his gaze, nor did he attempt to comfort her. He had learned long ago that some truths were not meant to be wrapped in kindness.
"I don't lie about deaths," he replied. "Especially not ones that matter."
Frey's fingers clenched against the pillow in her lap, the fabric creasing under her grip. Her breathing became uneven, shallow, as if the air around her had thickened.
"How," she whispered. "How did you even get close to him?"
