Elara studied Sylas as though she intended to peel him apart layer by layer and examine every secret beneath his skin.
"All hell will break loose," she repeated slowly, tapping one finger against the rim of her goblet. "You don't say things like that unless you already know how. So tell me—why?"
Sylas did not answer immediately.
A devilish smile curved his lips, the kind that promised ruin rather than warmth. One hand tapped lazily against the table as the morning wind threaded itself through his fingers, tugging playfully at his hair as though it, too, sought his attention. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"My gut tells me," he said at last.
Elara scoffed. "Your gut has never been wrong, which is precisely why I don't believe that's the only reason."
A faint smile curved his lips. "You know me too well."
"Then stop deflecting."
He turned to her then, pale eyes sharp with something close to amusement. "Very well. My spies in Virelia sent word last month.."
