The man laughed.
It was brief, low, and entirely unamused, as though the thought itself offended him.
"Are you insane, Your Highness?" his voice smooth, "Or did you just decide subtlety was optional?"
Azrayel did not turn.
He stood at the table, hands resting flat against the polished surface, eyes fixed on the seals and reports laid out before him, as though the ink might rearrange itself if he stared long enough.
"She chose," Azrayel said.
The man's smile faded.
"You allowed her to," he replied.
The distinction was deliberate.
Azrayel felt the truth of it settle uncomfortably deep.
He had never learned how to deny her anything. If Metheea asked, he obeyed. Not out of duty, not out of weakness, but because some part of him simply could not refuse her, and he despised the fact that it had been spoken aloud.
What angered him was not the accusation itself, but that someone else had named it, had given shape to something he preferred to leave unexamined.
