The third evening arrived with a heavy, oppressive stillness that seemed to cling to the stone walls of the academy. The sky was bruised deep purples and sickly oranges bleeding into a charcoal horizon, casting long, distorted shadows across the archery yard.
Iris found him there, alone in the dying light.
Rex was a silhouette of controlled power. He sat on a low wooden bench, the muscles in his back rippling like corded rope beneath his sweat-stained shirt as he worked.
He was restringing his bow, his movements methodical and precise, possessing the same terrifying patience she usually reserved for the ritual of her own weapons.
The scrape of the string against the bow's limbs was the only sound in the courtyard, sharp and rhythmic in the silence.
Iris froze at the entrance. Her heart performed a traitorous flutter against her ribs, a painful reminder of the shame that had festered in her gut since that night.
