"It is my fault," Cretio muttered with a low growl, the weight of frustration heavy in his voice, "to have ever lent my ears to your nonsense in the first place."
His glare, sharp as a drawn dagger, was aimed squarely at Thalien, who remained unshaken—lounging with the same casual elegance one might expect from a poet mid-recital rather than a noble amidst the collapse of a besieged city.
Thalien's eyebrows lifted in mock offense, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.
"Not being taken seriously?" he said, his tone brimming with irony, "My lord, do I strike you as a jester? Am I painted up like a mummer prancing about in a traveling troupe? If so, then I must be the best-dressed fool in Herculia."
