The curtain swayed, and in stepped Zyran, all swagger and grin, like a man entering a party he owned. His hair was just slightly mussed, his robe hanging loose enough to show off his chest in that deliberate, "oh, I didn't notice" way.
The grin on his face was wide—too wide—the kind that said he was about to say something annoying and enjoy every second of it.
Isabella's eyes flicked up at him, her brow twitching just enough to betray the tiny flare of irritation she tried to hide. Her posture didn't change, still sitting with her shoulders back and chin high, but her voice came out cool, clipped. "Why are you here?" She let the question hang in the air for a moment before tilting her head, adding, "You weren't invited."
