Behind the fragile reunion, the fog did not pause. It shifted, thickened, breathed. Fear condensed within it, heavy and damp, laced with murderous intent so dense it pressed against the ribs. The land itself seemed to draw breath, waiting for another scream.
Yet within that suffocating tension, Guilty Weasel–no, Aizrel–claimed the moment without asking permission.
Azriel broke.
The proud Chief of the Hell Tavern, the man whose name alone had silenced riots and bent criminals into obedience, stood trembling like someone who had wandered too far and finally realized he was lost. Tears he had imprisoned for decades spilled freely now, blurring everything until only the girl before him remained.
"M-My dear…"
His voice cracked before it could take shape. He swallowed, throat burning raw.
"C-Can you… tell me… y-your name?"
Each word came apart as he spoke it, scraped loose from guilt that had never healed.
Silence answered him.
Not cold. Not hostile. Just empty.
