The faint smell of burnt flowers clung to the wind, and no one moved for a moment.
Airi broke the stillness. Her steps were sharp, and the scrape of her boot on stone made Crest flinch. She drew one of her swords, arm tense, the point leveled at Bel.
"You let her go," she said. The words didn't shake. But her hands did.
Crest shifted behind her, unsure.
"Airi, maybe don't—"
"Stay out of it, now!" she snapped without looking at him.
Her eyes were fixed on Bel, wide with something tangled between betrayal and disbelief.
"Say something. Say you had a reason to let her go."
Bel looked at the sword. He didn't seem bothered.
"That won't change anything," he said. "You can't hurt me with that."
His voice was steady. Not cold. Not cruel. Just flat, like a door that had already closed.
"You don't even care, do you?" she asked, louder now. "You're not with the Demon Lords. You're not with us. So what are you?"
Bel exhaled slowly, like someone tired of repeating himself.
