"Who is old!?" Mireilla snapped, voice cracking through the serene sparring ring like a bolt of justified wrath. Her foot stomped once—harder than she meant to—and a thin crack ran up the nearest paving stone.
Lucavion blinked, blinking innocently, but there was a gleam in his eye.
"Older sister, I said," he offered, hands lifted in mock surrender. "There's a dignity to it. A respectable air. The wisdom of—"
"I am twenty-one!"
Lucavion blinked again, then gave a low whistle. "Huh. You carry it well."
"You want to carry a vine through the teeth next?"
"Oh," he said, clearly delighted now, "is this you expressing affection? I'm honored."
Mireilla inhaled slowly—very slowly—and folded her arms again with the forced composure of a woman who had once diffused a guild brawl with a rusted spoon and pure authority.
Elayne, to the side, made no comment.
But if one looked closely, the corners of her lips might have shifted.
