"Jasper. Zaranrel." Pyris's voice dropped like thunder sheathed in silk. He didn't raise it. He didn't need to. The weight of his presence did the work.
He turned his gaze slowly toward the fox and the incubus lounging far too comfortably in the gathering space. "What're you two doing… in the gathering of my women?"
A pause. The air compressed. Space tightened around them like it was considering exile.
Jasper's ears twitched, tail stiffening like someone had yanked it mid-flick. Zaranrel just gave a lopsided grin, unbothered—until the flicker of divine pressure made the rim of his glass crack in his hand.
But before either could respond, Astrid scoffed loudly from the couch, flipping her braid over her shoulder. "Correction—not all of us," she fired back.
Nysa nodded firmly, arms crossed, lips drawn in a tight smile.
All eyes briefly shifted to Zara, expecting her usual agreement.
She looked away. Hummed softly. Said nothing.
