“It pains me to disappoint you.” The retort is fired back quickly enough to be a jest, but there is as ever an undercurrent of sincerity better befitting comrades than mortal foes. A tightening of the chest, if it feels like anything, a narrowing of the throat, a note that sounds in answer to the frustrated edge in her tone. “Though you have conquered fewer nations, and used far more magic, than any of our heroic epics would suggest befits your own station.”

A beat. “No doubt you have other, more prosaic good deeds demanding your attention?”

Silence hangs expectantly; this time there is no chance one might think his attention wandered.