Opehlia was already giggling with Luca over something Glimora had done—probably a failed somersault or a sneeze that sent petals flying—so they paid absolutely no attention to Cyrus or Isabella. The little group was caught in their own bubble of chaos, leaving the tall, quiet man and the worry-prone woman standing in an awkward-but-intimate standoff over fruit and wellness.
Cyrus tilted his head ever so slightly, watching Isabella with gentle amusement. Her expression had shifted from sweet to suspicious, and now it sat firmly in horrified territory.
She squinted at him like a mother hen who just found one of her chicks covered in soot.
Isabella's eyes traced the subtle change in Cyrus's expression as she noticed the odd paleness in his features. He looked… not quite himself. She blinked, taking in the stark contrast between his usual well-guarded composure and the slight slackness in his posture. He looked tired. Too tired, in fact. Pale.
