Komand’r can’t fathom if you expect her to relate to your plight, as if she’d stoop to your level, so openly weakened by homesickness.

Supposedly, the planet you hailed from ordered your exile or met its demise entirely—she cared little to remember your morose origin. You’ve received room and board on Tamaran; what more should you need? It was a favor to Kori, an attempt to mend their fractured relationship. There was no talk of becoming your confidant; no reason for her to care beyond your survival. You might as well be a favored houseplant.

It's more than you deserve; you're not even one of her people. The Queen of Tamaran could just as easily worry about the dirt on the soles of her shoes—that's the level of importance you hold.

It should be inconsequential.

Yet, an uncomfortable feeling gnaws at her as you stand there, so woefully and pathetically sad. Her eyes flicker with a momentary vulnerability, quickly concealed behind a mask of indifference.

It shouldn't matter. Tamaran is in the midst of reconstruction efforts after the Blight—she cannot afford to stand still and console you like one would a child. Komand’r feels the familiar coil of anger pool in her gut—how dare you waste her time? It's as if your emotions have become tangible—dreary energy wafting in the air, permeating the newly constructed throne room.

"Make yourself useful or mope elsewhere," Komand’r waves a hand.