Assassin. It sounded decadently …tempting. Lethal. Deadly. It sounded perfect. “What does an assassin do?” Ira couldn’t help but ask after a few moments of deliberating trepidation. Ira loathed to admit that he didn’t know what exactly an assassin was, merely that he had drawn clumsy yet accurate conclusions upon the sound of the word as it left his guardian’s lips. “I still want to be your Princeling, and someday a King,” It didn’t have to be of her mountain, of course, he would be capable of doing his own thing when he was old enough to claim such a hefty title, but still. It was a clear goal he had since she had mentioned it many months ago, now. But he also wanted to be an assassin because, well, it sounded badass. “Did you want me to go with you?” He asked her softly, though not in any way that could be considered demure. He knew she was capable of taking care of herself - had no illusions of her abilities - but still. It hurt nothing to merely offer.
Ira was measurably surprised by how she took his statement about being cursed, her tone serious as opposed to the jesting one he had assumed she might have taken. He blinked his icy eyes at her, before they flickered to glimpse away. “I do not know,” Ira responded honestly, wishing desperately that he did, but even if he did know whom had done it (never mind that how he chose to define bad luck instead of being an actual thing) it was too late. He was so used to pushing every one away, allowing himself Jinx and Jinx only in secret, as if that would keep his curse at some sort of bay, that he wasn’t sure he would be able to stop. “It can’t,” He whispered in a miserable tone, feeling heat rise to his eyes, pricking at the corners. “You believe me? That I am cursed?” Ira inquired in hopes of trying to alter the conversation to distract himself from the
stupidtears that he could feel behind his eyes.
He didn't cry. He had vowed to never cry again once his eyes had dried from the massacre he had witnessed as a smaller child.