The archery yard was bathed in the harsh, unforgiving light of two afternoons later, the sun beating down on the desiccated grass with a relentless intensity. Iris worked with a focused, almost meditative precision, her fingers moving with practiced familiarity as she restrung a recurve bow.
She treated the equipment with a reverence she rarely afforded people; to Iris, tools were honest. They responded to skill and maintenance, not to emotional manipulation or hidden agendas.
The crunch of gravel announced his approach before his voice did. Rex didn't announce himself with the usual swagger that had become his signature since claiming authority over the Nightwing household, though the swagger was still there, coiled beneath a new, dangerous layer of calm.
"You did Aurelia a kindness," he said, dropping onto the low wooden fence beside her without waiting for an invitation.
