Sylus sat comfortably in an armchair by the window, one leg crossed over the other, swirling a glass of wine in his hand. The dim glow of the chandelier cast long shadows across the room, gilding the sharp angles of his face with an eerie warmth. He looked utterly at ease, as if the past three days had been nothing more than an idle distraction, rather than the tangled mess of unanswered questions and frayed patience they had become.

“You’re still here.” His voice was smooth, almost lazy, as if the thought genuinely entertained him. “I half-expected you to run. Or at least try to.”