Chapter 77 A Moment Of Unspoken Truth

• The air in Alaric's office is much heavier than it had been a few minutes before. The storm outside passed a long while ago, leaving only the soft whispers of wind against the window shutters.
• Inside, however, between the glint of dying coals in the fireplace and the faint scent of aged whiskey, the tension still lingers. It's not the kind that preludes danger, or the fragile hostility we have so often exchanged. It is something quieter, something neither of us seems willing to disrupt.
• I sit curled up in the leather armchair across from his desk, leaned slightly forward towards him. Alaric remained behind his desk, one hand resting on the armrest, fingers idly tracing along its curves as if anchoring himself to something solid. His other hand holds a wine glass, the amber liquid inside untouched.