Herbalists' Cache but my aching soul

gjalla watches him, eyes sharp—too sharp, piercing straight through the paper-thin dismissal he so casually throws out. She isn’t mine. lies.

her smirk deepens. “mmm.” a simple sound, noncommittal, but pointed and utterly disbelieving.

the arch of her brow is all she needs to make her disbelief clear. he does not yield, no, never. "how strange it is, then, that he waits to take a wife based on the state of a child he does not want," she drawls, eyes gleaming with something smug, something taunting, because she sees straight through him. sees how the girl lingers at the edges of his watchful eye.

he is full of shit.