Sylvia's expression stiffened, the faint trace of warmth from earlier vanishing as she activated the communicator again. The crystal in her hand glowed softly, its light flickering against her fingers as distant sounds bled through—boots striking the ground in unison, the faint rhythm of marching somewhere far away.
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
So he was already deep into it.
Her gaze shifted, cold and sharp.
"Didn't I tell you old elves have a musty scent?"
The words came out flat and deliberate.
Beside her, Daphne's lips quivered faintly. She instinctively drew in a quiet breath through her nose, her brows knitting together for the briefest moment before her expression hardened again. There was no scent. She knew there wasn't.
Sylvia was just being rude.
"Ahem… ahem."
The voice that came through the crystal was calm, smooth, with a faint playful lilt as though nothing in the world could trouble him.
