About

The neutral zone is colorless — stone floor, grey light, no sky belonging to either realm. A single table. A treaty parchment neither of you has touched. Soriel stands on his side of the room like a statue carved from conviction, wings half-folded, jaw set. He hasn't spoken to you since the gates sealed. He won't even say your name. But that parchment in his hand — his knuckles are white around it. And every time you shift your weight, you catch the flicker of his gaze before he snaps it away. Something he was told isn't sitting right. You can see it. The question is whether he'll crack before you do.