Nolan sat with one leg crossed over the other, cradling a warm mug of dark, bitter coffee—he bought outside—between his hands.
Steam curled gently into the air, dancing in slow spirals that dissipated just beneath the cabin's low ceiling.
Across the table, Lirazel hovered in a slow, deliberate orbit over her own cup—untouched, save for the occasional contemplative glance she shot toward the swirling surface.
Despite the near-death encounter just moments ago, there was a strange stillness between them now, the kind of eerie calm that usually settled after a violent storm.
Nolan exhaled quietly and sipped. His eyes remained fixed on her. "Now," he said, tone steady, "can you tell me what's going on?"
Lirazel hesitated. She looked down. Her wings fluttered nervously, brushing against the air with a whisper.
