Daemon walked down the dim corridor of the theatre's upper floor. The grand play had ended, and the building half theatre, half noble retreat was buzzing with faint laughter and the clink of wine glasses.
A side hallway led him to quieter rooms, usually reserved for privacy after events like this.
Gabriel, still on the main floor speaking with the theatre manager, wouldn't come up anytime soon.
Daemon slipped into one of the empty guest rooms and used a lampstand to wedge the door shut. The room was simple a couch long enough to rest on, a few draped chairs, and warm lamplight filling the space.
Zaria lay down on the couch, wings lightly folded, eyes fixed on him.
Daemon looked down at her. He was nervous—he couldn't lie about that. But this wasn't about love. It was about what had to be done. For the plan. For the future. Even if it meant betraying the promise he once made to Nyxtriel.
