Gods help him—if one more person asked whether he was brooding, he might actually start doing it out of spite. He wasn’t brooding. He was thinking. There was a difference.

Brooding required dramatic staring and emotional turmoil. He was watching the treeline because something had moved. That was called not wanting to die, which felt fairly reasonable.

But apparently, the moment he left a battlefield with blood on his armour, everyone decided he must be one tragic verse away from collapsing into despair. Mortals were exhausting.

The faerie drifted closer, like she found his irritation charming. Of course she did. Mischief clung to her like perfume.

“You talk a lot. Has anyone ever told you that?”

She blinked, all innocence, and he rolled his eyes.

“No? They probably passed out before they got the chance.”