Herbalists' Cache hold my cup

respect it? it is almost laughable.

his lip twitches; a laugh, perhaps, though there is no humor in it. he wants to refute her, wants to tell her she is wrong—but the truth sits thick in his throat. he is not the man he was when they were young. time had taken a blade to him, carved away the excess, left him something harder, sharper.

but the core of him? he huffs, turning his head away—away from her.

respect is not given. it is taken. she should know that. she had taken hers, long before sun eater ever handed it to her.

a low, slow exhale through his nose. you ask much of me, my queen. and it is mocking the way he says it, as his crimson eyes lazily slide back towards her.