“You owe,” she said. It was not a question.
Io stepped closer. The air grew thick, smelling of rain and old roses. She took the key, her fingers brushing his. Her touch was cold, but not unkind. mistreci io
For a long moment, she simply looked at him. Then Io did something unprecedented. She laughed—a short, rusty sound, like a bell cracking after years of silence. “You owe,” she said
Elias nodded, though she could not see it. “Three years. Three favors. You saved my sister. You buried my debt to the Cassadors. And last spring… you gave me back my name when the Council tried to erase it.” The air grew thick, smelling of rain and old roses
“Mistreci Io,” she repeated, softer now. “No one has ever called me that and meant it as a gift.”
Io did not turn from the window. Her reflection in the dark glass was a ghost—sharp cheekbones, eyes the color of tarnished silver, lips pressed into a line that had never once smiled for him. She wore a gown of deep emerald that pooled at her feet like liquid shadow.