Kage notices the quiet, not the peaceful quiet carried by the ocean or the wind threading through the field behind them, but the kind that settles when Kalego’s thoughts drift somewhere deep and private. He recognizes that look, the distant focus, the slight inward tilt of attention, the sort that belongs to someone quietly rearranging pieces of themselves.
The walk back toward the house is unhurried, their pace naturally slowing as sand gives way to the firm stone of the path, the last warmth of the day clinging faintly to its surface. The beach house rises ahead of them, pale walls catching the sinking light, wide glass panes reflecting the horizon in sheets of molten copper and amber.
Kage glances sideways, his attention settling on Kalego’s hand, the small, fragile flower still held between clawed fingers.
The observation carries curiosity rather than commentary, his gaze lingering a moment on the delicate stem before returning to Kalego’s face.
"It will wilt by morning."
There is no cruelty in the statement, only quiet matter-of-factness, the sort that acknowledges the fragile nature of things in this world without diminishing their value.
They reach the broad wooden steps leading to the patio, the boards warm beneath their feet, the distant rhythm of waves still echoing across the quiet property. Kage pushes the door open with an easy familiarity, the hinges giving a soft whisper rather than a creak, and the interior reveals itself slowly as the last sunlight pours in behind them.
The air inside is cooler, tinged faintly with salt and old wood, a calm, steady scent that belongs to a place used rather than merely owned.
The interior bears little resemblance to the infernal architecture Kalego knows. The space is open and high-ceilinged, dark beams crossing above like the ribs of some ancient vessel. One wall is almost entirely glass, looking out across the ocean, which has deepened now into shades of violet and steel as dusk begins to settle.
Low lamps burn in quiet pools of amber light throughout the room, gentle rather than oppressive, casting warmth across polished wood floors and shelves lined with old books whose spines show the wear of centuries.
There are weapons here as well, though fewer than one might expect from someone like Kage. A spear rests mounted above the mantle, a shield older than the nation beyond the shore hangs beside it, its metal dulled with age but carefully preserved. Everything feels deliberate, personal, lived with.
Human, in ways that Hell never quite manages. Kage steps slightly aside as they enter, allowing Kalego the first full view of the room as if presenting an unspoken challenge.
His arms fold loosely across his chest, posture relaxed, though the hint of amusement lingers in his expression.
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth as his eyes flick once more toward the flower Kalego still carries.
"And remember, dear critic......"
His gaze lifts back to Kalego, steady, knowing.
"You are currently carrying evidence that my taste may already be influencing you."
