[ she blinks owlishly, stuffing down the feelings that rise up in the back of her throat. the girl that she'd left behind in the little palace would be laughing, giddy, charmed. she would flourish.

but he has caught her off guard by pivoting too quickly, and she is not that girl.

instead, she feels placated. not really accepted as his peer, but only told what she needs to hear in order to continue like one of those beautiful exotic birds the king keeps: trotted out for performances, and caged. he cannot mean it, especially not with how easily he glides down to something much lower stakes, much less serious.

can he?

would it make a difference?

baghra's mockery hangs heavy around her shoulders. how foolish she was, before, to believe that this could ever be true. she wants to scream with protest, wants to demand to know why he went behind her back into her journals about the stag, why he had constructed such an elaborate lie about his past. but she knows why. she knows.

it should be impossible to want to be anything to him, knowing what she knows. the fact that it is not feels like some kind of turning point, some transition, and she desperately wants to turn back from it. but when she glances away, she only notices that they have reached the showers, and she'd been too wrapped up in speaking with him to notice.

she shakes off her surprise, blinks away her stony expression for one more dryly sarcastic. ]

Well, I would hate to earn the ire the woman in charge of distributing supplies. [ she gestures into the showers, inviting him to lead the way. ] I'll be certain to tell her of your esteem later.