Elios was wrong about one thing. Philia wasn't a guest, he was a bad decision that had somehow traveled all the way north.
His brain was basically static at this point. The constant jostling finally stopped, replaced by actual ground, hard and real, in the Duchy's courtyard. Zarius was there, a constant, heavy presence, guiding him down from the saddle with hands that felt far too warm against Cherion's chilled skin. Honestly, his brain was currently a soup of half-formed thoughts and lingering adrenaline, he was essentially a standing vegetable.
But then, the atmosphere shattered.
Philia launched himself across the courtyard like a heat-seeking missile with a vendetta. Before Cherion's sluggish reflexes could even scream abort mission, he was suddenly hit by what felt like a luxury brand hurricane: silk, scent, and poor life choices.
"Lord Cherion! Oh, gods, Lord Cherion!"
