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Summary
At first, it registered only as richness: the lingering aroma of wine, dark and aged, clinging to the air like velvet. Beneath it lay tobacco—dry, faintly bitter—and under that, an iron note so subtle it might have been imagined if Ebba hadn’t been accustomed to noticing such things. Blood, old and sharp, threaded through it all.
Omega.
The realization settled without shock, without judgment. Ebba’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t straighten, didn’t soften, didn’t avert her gaze or let it linger too boldly. If anything, her shoulders relaxed by a fraction—not in dominance, but in understanding.