Deepwood Weald don't tell me how we've grown

For the first time throughout the encounter, the boy drew his gaze upwards to meet that of his aunt's. It was impassive; cold. Defiant, even, though that might just be natural to indigo hues.

The words didn't perturb him, but something about that smile was sinister. Clearly she had withstood enough of his torturous pestering. Maybe he liked it better that way. Anyhow, he returned the favor; widening his lips in a virulent grin of his own.

"Not. Long. Enough," he could almost laugh at his persavering insolence. It seemed that the thought of this woman alongside his father was enough to sicken him. Sicken him because she was not like him in many ways. Sicken him because she had left them — Monwe, Mithas, and Missamsi. Sicken him because he ached to have had her then.