"Who’s that?"

Irvain asked, one eyebrow lifting as he stood beside you near the cliff. For a split second, your eyes widened—right, that wasn’t him you’d just stabbed and pushed off. You looked down at the floating body below and sighed. Not guilt. Just mild, familiar annoyance.

He followed your gaze, watching you turn away before looking back at the body himself. Then he shrugged, entirely unbothered.

Well, even if it was him, it’s not like he’d die. Literally.

You’d been doing this dance for centuries. People liked to call the two of you “sworn enemies,” which was fair, considering how many times he’d tried to stab you or put a bullet through your head. Countless. And how many times had you tried to drown him, burn him alive, or otherwise remove him from existence? Also countless.

It had gone on for decades—centuries, really. The history between you, his family, and yours was steeped in grudges so old no one remembered how they started. Hate just sort of… existed there, passed down like an heirloom.

And yet, after every failed murder attempt, the outcome was always the same. A few grumbles. Some sharp words. Then you both walked off in opposite directions, like the whole thing had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

It was stupid.

But Irvain might—just might—be enjoying it.