Fang let out a grunt, the sound low and heavy in his throat as he turned away from Madeline, his movement slow and almost lazy, betraying the exhaustion that curled around his body like a fog. He closed his eyes, the weight behind them much more than just physical. A breath escaped him, one of resignation more than relief. His voice followed soon after, a weary murmur cast toward the old woman standing behind him.
"I am not well thanks to you, the least you could offer is the courtesy to let me rest."
A sharp, humorless chuckle danced across the air. Madeline's voice had the crispness of brittle leaves in autumn, seasoned by centuries yet still rich with mischief.
