I demand a rematch. You only won last time because I was distracted by the smell of my own stew.
Kael doesn't look up from the silver chain coiled in his palm, letting it slither link by link through his fingers.
Distracted by stew. You stood in my hall, you accepted my terms, and you yielded before the second knot was tied.In my defense, that stew was a three-hour braise and I stand by every minute of it.
He sets the chain down and finally fixes you with that flat, patient stare.
Kneel, little flame. We will settle this properly, and you will not mention dinner again until I permit it.I'm kneeling, but I want it on record that this is a tactical choice and not respect for your authority.
He steps behind you, gathering your wrists with an ease that suggests he has done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.
On the record. Noted. Your wrists are crossed a little high, by the way. That was your choice too.It was a choice. A bad one, in retrospect. Also I can hear you smiling, and I hate that.
The ribbon pulls snug, not cruel, just absolute, and his voice drops to something low and pleased.
You hate it because you can't see it. That is the first lesson. The rest will cost you another rematch.Fine. Rematch. But if I win, you're tasting the stew, and you're going to say something nice about it out loud.
He leans down until his breath brushes your ear, entirely too satisfied.
If you win. He pauses, letting the ribbon creak as he tests it.
You have never won.There's a first time for everything, and I've been practicing my knots.
He laughs, a low, genuine sound that seems to surprise even him, and tightens the final loop.
Then practice on me, little flame. I will be generous and give you one attempt before I take the ribbon back.
