The silk of the duvet hissed softly against the Zarius's heavy frame as Flio tucked the edges in. Cherion stood by the foot of the bed, his fingers still tingling from the residual buzz of his own magic, watching the scene play out like a silent play.
Zarius was out cold. Truly out. He looked calm and handsome as ever, but the usual "fear me" energy was nowhere to be found, like his aura had called in sick.
It was hard to scrub the image of Soren's face from his mind. That moment in the study, right after the tea cup had shattered, his face hadn't just looked surprised. He'd looked... hollowed out. Pale as a winter ghost. But the shock hadn't paralyzed him.
If anything, it drove him to move faster, throwing himself into work. Soren had been the one to sprint down the hall, his boots thundering against the stone to fetch Elios and Flio. He had been the one to guide them back, eyes wide and frantic, yet his hands remained steady as a surgeon's when they reached for their master.
