Metheea turned, her gown brushing softly against the stone. Azrayel stood there, his expression dark as his golden eyes fixed on Yise, who remained bowed.
"We are going home," Azrayel said, his voice clipped.
Metheea blinked. "Home? But why? The night has only just begun—"
His gaze cut to her, sharp and unwavering. "Your tutor has not finished with you."
Her lips parted. Tutor? Now? They had time tomorrow, time the day after. Why insist tonight, when the hall was still alive with music, when the feast had only just begun?
"Brother," she began carefully, "surely it can wait—"
But Azrayel's hand closed around hers, firm, leaving no room for argument. He pulled her toward the hall's steps, his pace quick, his grip unyielding.
She cast one last glance over her shoulder. Baron Reser had straightened from his bow, his golden curls catching the lantern glow, his expression unreadable as he watched her go.
