Azael said nothing more in front of the servants.
"Isabel. Come with me."
His voice was calm. But there was something underneath it that made it impossible to refuse, a quiet weight that simply expected to be obeyed. He was speaking in a commanding tone.
Isabel paused for just a moment. Her fingers pressed together against the fabric of her apron. Then she lowered her head.
"…Yes, young master."
She followed him.
They walked through the manor without speaking. The corridors were long and still, the kind of stillness that feels deliberate, as though the house itself was holding its breath.
Their footsteps echoed faintly off the polished floors, off the high ceilings, the sound bouncing back to them like a reminder of how alone they were in that stretch of hall.
Azael walked ahead. Isabel kept pace a step behind him.
She didn't ask where they were going. He didn't offer it.
