Rehearsal ended early. Not because Madame Elladine dismissed us, but because Avel couldn’t stay in the room anymore. His self-control frayed visibly each time I inhaled. Each time I moved. Each time a note left my mouth. He tried to mask it, tried to compose himself, but his body betrayed him. The tightening jaw, the tremor in his breath, the way his eyes kept drifting toward my throat as though a memory still lingered there from the night before. When rehearsal finally closed, he left without a word. Just disappearing, quietly, quickly, like a man running from his own pulse. Silas, however, did not leave. He waited until Madame Elladine stepped away, then intercepted me. His hand closed around my forearm. “Lyria,” he whispered, “we need to talk.” I stiffened. “Silas, I’m tired. Whatever it is—” “No,” he said, voice cracking. “Not later. Now.” His eyes—usually calm, steady—looked wrecked. Red at the edges. He pulled me into a side corridor dimly lit by dying g
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