"So you're saying Shelia is suddenly 'sick' and now Kian declared her room is off-limits?" Isabella asked, rubbing her eyes with one hand while still half-lying on her fur mat, voice dripping with sleepy sass.
"Yes…" Opehlia replied quietly as she packed away the wooden bowls. Her shoulders sagged like a defeated rabbit. "There are guards outside her room, lots of them. They won't let me in no matter how many times I beg…"
Her voice was soft, almost pitiful. She clearly missed her friend—but also looked like she hadn't slept in years.
Isabella sat up straighter. That strange little tingle crawled up her spine. Something was fishy. Fishier than Opehlia's last attempt at grilled snake meat.
But before she could even roll her eyes properly, the hide curtain rustled.
Enter: Cyrus.
With soup.
