Lord Ferngull’s gaze flicks between them, taking in the unspoken warning threaded through their every word. Their every move. Something knowing touches his expression before it smooths again.
“How reassuring,” he says lightly, leaning back. “Loyalty like that is… rare.”
His eyes drift back to me, slower this time.
“Still,” he adds, voice softening, “after all this time… Lady Alette is a sight for sore eyes.” His smile curves faintly. “I could see myself very happy with someone like her on my arm. Someone so beautiful… and yet brave enough to walk willingly into a place like this.”
Cassius speaks before anyone else can move, his tone quiet but cutting. “I suggest you look elsewhere for a wife.”
Lord Ferngull’s brows lift slightly. “Is that so?”
“Very,” Cassius replies, his gaze unwavering. “She is not available.”
“My apologies,” he says smoothly, though there’s no real regret in his voice. “It seems I overstepped.”
His gaze flicks to Oberon, something almost pleased lingering there.
“Clearly.”
No one relaxes. Not even a little. Because if anything… the room feels far more dangerous now than it did before. Then heleans back, slow and deliberate, his expression smoothing into something pleasant again.
“Forgive me,” he says lightly. “It has simply been… a long time since we’ve had guests worth speaking to.”
“I guess this place could make even the most gentlemanly among us misstep,” Sylvian offers, but his eyes are cold.
The conversation drifts after that, lighter on the surface, though the tension never fades. He speaks of life within the labyrinth, of underground farms carved into the stone, of careful paths and uneasy alliances with creatures that choose not to attack. His words paint a picture of survival shaped into something almost civilized.
Almost.
I listen, but something about it doesn’t sit right.
Eventually, he claps his hands, the sound sharp in the room. Servants appear instantly. “You must be exhausted,” he says, rising smoothly. “And in need of proper rest. My servants will show you to your rooms.”
Rooms.The word feels strange. Unreal.
“Please,” he adds, his smile returning. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
We stand slowly, none of us quite letting our guard down, even as warmth, food, and exhaustion pull at us. Because no matter how inviting this place feels… we’re on alert. Always on alert.
The servants step forward, guiding us up the stairs in silence. None of us speak as we follow, the tension from the room below still clinging to us, sharp and unshaken.
At the top, the corridor stretches long and dimly lit, doors lining either side. The servants gesture to them with small bows. “We’ve drawn baths for each of you in your rooms.”
They withdraw quickly after that, leaving us alone.
No one moves right away. We linger in the hall, the storm echoing faintly through the walls, the air still tense from our weird dinner with the lord.
“You don’t go anywhere alone,” Oberon says first, his voice low, controlled, but still edged with the anger he hasn’t burned off.
“As in anywhere,” Ashton adds, glancing down the hall like he expects Lord Ferngull to reappear. “If you so much as step out of your room, you call for one of us.”
Oberon shakes his head. “She won’t even need to call for us. The four of us will take turns cleaning up and standing guard outside her door.”
“We’ll be right here,” Sylvian says, softer, stepping closer. “All of us. You won’t be out of reach.”
“Yell loudly if you have to,” Ashton adds.
Cassius steps closer. “And we aren’t going to actually sleep separately?”
