Mount Everfall the black parade

Qvasir’s gaze flicked to Aitana as she spoke, the corners of his mouth pulling into the faintest hint of a sneer. Her words were light, but her tone grated against his nerves—careless, almost flippant in the face of the responsibility Mictec had entrusted them with.

You're rude, he bit out sharply, his voice low and deliberate, like a blade honed to precision. His pale eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary, the weight of his displeasure palpable.

Without waiting for a response, he shifted his attention back to the clearing, his posture rigid. Qvasir didn’t bother elaborating; he figured his point had been made well enough. Aitana’s playful smirk might as well have been a challenge to him, but he wasn’t here to indulge her games.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. Try not to get in my way, he muttered finally, his tone clipped but quieter. It wasn’t quite an olive branch, but it wasn’t outright hostility either—just a begrudging acknowledgment that, for now, they were stuck with each other.