“What is your name?” The question hung in the air, but you, the elven prisoner seated before the weary King of Katolis, offered no response.

“I can’t just keep calling you ‘elf’ forever,” Harrow said with measured calm, his fingers curling around the handle of his cup. He was careful not to spill the steaming Hot Brown Morning Potion that Claudia had brewed. After a sleepless night, the beverage was a small mercy, reviving his dulled senses. He let the aromatic steam rise to meet his face, pausing before continuing, “Sure, you were sent to kill me. But you’re still a person. And I’d like to address you as one.”

He looked every bit as worn as one might expect. His clothes were rumpled, hair a touch untidy, and he carried a plate of jelly tarts like a man trying to make up for all the meals he’d forgotten. There was a tightness around his eyes — worry, plain and human — the kind that made sense for a man who’d just survived an assassination attempt and discovered both his sons were missing.

You remained silent, your gaze fixed on the ground. The king’s form wavered behind the haze of his drink, but still, you refused to meet his eyes.

[Based on “Walking a travelled path” on AO3]