Koen had gone still at some point. Not tense, not startled—just still, like a wild animal in the underbrush catching the scent of something off in the wind. There was no fear in the stillness. No panic. Just quiet calculation. It was the kind of silence that came from someone who’d learned not to react until the very last second. The kind of silence that made it hard to tell if he was angry, or simply waiting to see how far someone would go before they made themselves a threat.

The Angel’s voice carried like a poisoned bell—too sweet, too measured. Koen didn’t move when she tossed her hair, didn’t flinch when she pinned him beneath that eerie, full-bodied stare. It was like being studied under glass. Not for cruelty, not even for pleasure—just for the game of it. Like he was a puzzle piece and she already knew what picture he belonged to. Every word out of her mouth had that same syrupy edge, like rot under velvet. And though Koen’s face didn’t shift, his eyes didn’t leave her once. He had the kind of gaze that was quiet but heavy. A look that didn’t wander or drift. That just stayed.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t want to know it. Names were a form of closeness, and she felt anything but close. Something about her presence clung like oil in the lungs—beautiful, yes, but in the way a spider’s web is beautiful right before it closes around something’s throat.

When her tone shifted and she claimed to know him—more than he knew himself—there was a flicker behind his eyes. Not shock. Not denial. Just… awareness. A door creaking open in his mind, somewhere deep and dark where things he couldn’t name had already started to stir. He said nothing. Didn’t challenge it. But the weight in his chest shifted slightly, like something had been nudged loose.

The tension at the table grew hotter with every breath. Koen didn’t glance at the others, but he could feel them. Could feel how the attention shifted, how weapons were being measured behind eyes and under smiles. He didn’t need to watch Rhiot’s jaw grinding to know it was happening. The Fey’s aura had flared with a violent kind of frustration, something wild and caged and sharp. Like he was seconds away from flipping the table and dealing with consequences later.

Still, Koen didn’t move until Rhiot did.

When the Fey stood with that exaggerated, theatrical anger, Koen blinked once, slowly. He missed the sleight of hand. Didn’t catch the droplet hitting the wine. But the way Rhiot’s voice rang out—cutting, dangerous, public—put him on edge in a different way. Koen didn’t understand the deeper politics in the room, didn’t know who had power where or how long-standing grudges had wound their roots through the Institute’s foundations. But he did know the scent of provocation when he smelled it. The way the whole room responded like dry kindling under a match. Wings twitching. Chairs pulled back just a hair too fast. Eyes hardening into readiness.

Then Rhiot turned to him.

And extended a hand.

Koen took it without question. His grip was solid, unhesitating. His fingers were warm and calloused, the kind of hand that had known long work and longer fights. He moved easily, silently, letting the tension of the room peel off his back as they stepped out. He didn’t look back at the Angel. Didn’t spare her another glance. Whatever game she was playing, he wasn’t interested in being baited.

Outside, the night was a strange kind of relief. Cold air, quiet stone beneath his boots. The heavy walls of the Institute fell behind them with each step, but it wasn’t until they passed through the outer gate that Koen breathed again—really breathed. Like he hadn’t realized how thick the air had been inside until it loosened around him now.

There was music in the distance. Laughter. Some lingering scent of roasting meat and incense from the village beyond the wall. A world that seemed too bright and too normal after the rot and veiled threats behind them.

Then the wind shifted.

And a different scent curled through the air—thick, cloying, like honey spilled on stone. Flower nectar left too long in the sun. Koen’s nostrils flared slightly, his brows tightening as the smell hit the back of his throat. It wasn’t wrong, exactly, but it stirred something uneasy in him. Something too-familiar. Like déjà vu with teeth.

Rhiot stopped walking. Shoulders sagged. The mask of rage melted off him like wet paint, leaving something rougher, wearier underneath. Koen turned toward him slowly. The moonlight caught in the Fey's hair, making the disheveled strands glow around the sharp bones of his face. He looked like he was trying to say something but didn’t quite have the words for it. Koen recognized the look. He’d worn it before himself. When there was too much you didn’t know how to carry, but no one ever taught you how to put it down.

Rhiot spoke first.

“That was a shit show.”

Koen didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. But his mouth tugged slightly at the corners. Just a twitch. Something almost amused, almost bitter.

He turned his head slightly, looking back toward the place they’d come from. The great shadow of the Institute sat heavy in the dark behind them. Inside those walls, that woman—the Angel, whatever she was—still sat at her place at the table, waiting. Watching. Knowing things she shouldn’t.

Koen didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, finally, his voice came—quiet, low, but steady. A voice like smoke curling up from something still burning.

“Who the hell was that?”

It wasn’t fear in the question. Or curiosity. It was something else.

A statement disguised as inquiry.

Because Koen already knew, in his bones, that she wasn’t done with him.

And whatever she thought she knew—whatever she actually knew—he wasn’t going to wait around to be caught in the open again.