Later that night, their room was quiet except for the faint creak of the wooden floorboards as Oliver shut the door behind them.
Isolde had already flopped onto the bed, one arm draped lazily over her stomach, her nightdress riding up dangerously high on her thigh. She looked as if she hadn't a care in the world, but Oliver knew better.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, watching her in the dim candlelight. "Hey, Isolde…"
"Hm?" She turned her head, crimson eyes half-lidded but alert.
"You sounded… angry downstairs. About Tenebris. And the elves." He hesitated. "Does it still… bother you? What happened to your country?"
For a moment, she didn't answer. The playful smirk she usually wore was gone, replaced by something harder to read. Her gaze shifted toward the ceiling.
