"Pa ra ra pa pa ta," Isabella hummed, voice light and breezy as she wandered through the stone arch of the palace's rear courtyard, Glimora snoozing like a purring pebble in her arms. "Where is he?" she murmured, scanning the sun-warmed area with a slight frown, brows pinched together. Her slippers barely made a sound along a sun-hardened trail scattered with small stones.
And that was when her ears caught it—laughter.
Not just any laughter. That soft, kind, sunshine-laced laughter that belonged to one very specific man.
Cyrus.
Her brows shot up.
She didn't quicken her pace—but something in her steps changed, lighter, sharper. Like her instincts had gone on high alert. Like something in her gut had begun tapping on her ribs.
And as she turned the corner past the tall hanging vines and the strange stack of smooth boulders, the source came into view.
Oh.
There he was.
