Elara placed her quill into its crystal inkwell with a precise, silent motion. She didn't look up at him immediately. Her internal system was currently running a massive diagnostic loop.
Ever since Julian had placed that messy, unoptimized bundle of mint on her table, the localized heat behind her ribs—the "malfunction" she had been tracking—had increased by exactly four point two percent. It wasn't painful, but it was introducing a heavy, dense rhythm into her chest that didn't align with her standard biological telemetry.
"The minister's physical reaction was a result of a calculated stress response," Elara flatly explained, finally lifting her vacant, glass-bead eyes to meet his ice-blue gaze. "It ensures future compliance. It is not a festive event."
Julian let out a genuine, soft laugh—a low sound that made Mahir's ears twitch violently from the shadows.
