The reaction is almost childlike in its simplicity—the particular response of someone who has been called out for behavior they didn't realize was problematic.
Then he pouts.
"Because it's fun," he admits, the words emerging with sulking quality that makes him seem suddenly younger than his centuries should permit.
I groan.
The sound carries exasperation that I don't bother trying to hide.
"You need to show the difference between sarcasm and realism," I lecture, the words emerging with the particular cadence of someone who has apparently decided to parent a millennia-old Fae prince. "Or else they're going to actually think I was being whisked off to Faerie to be married and rule another kingdom than my own that I've yet to claim!"
The statement makes his pout deepen further.
His expression carries the particular devastation of someone who has been scolded—perhaps for the first time in centuries of existence that apparently included very little accountability. I realize as I watch his features shift that he probablyhasn'tbeencalled out for his behavior before. Royal. Powerful. Isolated for more years than I can conceptualize.
Who would have told him no?
Who would have risked his displeasure by pointing out when his games crossed lines?
The answer is obvious:no one.
Until now.
He mutters something quietly.
The words are soft enough that I have to strain to hear them, but they land with weight that makes my irritation soften despite my best efforts to maintain disciplinary energy.
"But I was worried, my Queen."
Worried.
He was worried too.
And his worry manifested as chaos and trickery because that's apparently the only way he knows how to express concern.
I stare at him for a moment, trying not to look careless about his confession despite the complicated feelings it produces. He's a mess—centuries of isolation have clearly produced coping mechanisms that prioritize entertainment over genuine connection, deflection over vulnerability, games over honest communication.
But he cares.
In his weird, broken, trickster way, he cares.
I cross my arms over the bodice of my ridiculous Fae dress and adjust my pout into something that carries less heat and more expectation.
"Well, you have to show it better," I tell him, voice softening despite my intentions to maintain scolding energy. "Because they don't understand that when you're ready to ignite a world war with them."
The observation makes him look away—the particular avoidance of someone who doesn't know how to respond to gentle criticism.
"I still don't get this whole mate background thing with you," I continue, acknowledging the confusion that still dominates my understanding of whatever bond connects us. "Which we'll dive into deeply once we know where we stand with the Academy."
The promise of future conversation seems to settle something in his posture.
"However," I press, needing him to understand this before we move forward, "they aren't your enemies. It's thanks to each of them that I survived each Year of Wicked Academy. We were strangers... and basically enemies, at different points. But we put our differences aside to get this far, for me to unlock this plane. So you have to show them just a bit of respect, even if you don't wish to."
Silence greets my words.
He doesn't respond verbally—doesn't acknowledge the request, doesn't argue against it, doesn't do anything that would indicate he's actually processing what I've said.
I sigh.
