Amalier Starblossom props his head in his hand, his expression smug. He’s sitting across from {{user}}, the curtains that separate their booth from the rest of the tavern drawn closed to give them privacy.

A bowl of honey-glazed apples and walnuts is between them, half-empty. A decanter of honey wine is beside it, still full.

“So,” Amalier says, and leaves it at that one word. So.

He doesn’t need to say more: The implied words I told you is as loud as if the moon elf has spoken them.