“That’s all you do, Sparrow. Pretend.” He selects a bottle, studies it, then removes its cork with his teeth again. He sips, then jerks back around. “This one,” he says and holds it out. “Torr would like this one.”

Cautiously, I grasp the base of the bottle. I turn my hot face as he strides past me.

“Don’t look so pathetic,” he scoffs. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually,” I say softly and inspect the dark lager in my hands.

“There you go again… pretending. I can’t blame you, not really. It is a Verdanian trait. Heads stuck so far up in the mountains—you play dumb for the rest of the world, hoping it might save you.”

“Why are you being so mean?”

He snorts, then pours the remainder of his first bottle onto the stone floor. “Because we’re enemies, Idalia. Why should we pretend we’re anything else? It’s like you said, we aren’t even friends.”

“You’re such a coward,” I hiss.

His head whips to the right, revealing his sharp profile.

“What’s that?” He demands.

“You heard me.” I step towards him. Any kindness I felt is gone. “You’re a coward, Braizen. A lowly, selfish coward. You heard what your father and his men did, yet you still defend him. You act as if losing your friends doesn’t bother you because you’re afraid that showing your wounds is a weakness. But I can assure you; it’s not. Hiding your wounds is idiotic; they can’t heal when you stuff them away. You cannot grow from them if they’re left in the shadows.”

The bottle drops from his limp hold, and the rattle rings through the storeroom.

“Even now, you cower behind the guise of our being enemies, acting as if we could never be friends because you’re still scared of him, your father. Though a hundred miles separate you two, you still fear him. His disappointment, his shadow…his crown.” I move in closer.

“That’s why you ran away and created that gods damn circus you call The Cloaked,” I continue viciously. “It’s why you rob the richest noblemen in your precious kingdom and spend your reaping on booze and whores. Most consequentially, though, it’s why they’re gone.”

My face hardens as the cold words fly from my tongue like a blizzard. “They’re dead because you dragged them into this pitiful masquerade to flee from under your father’s thumb. And then you bailed on them. All for your enemy. All for the little bird whom you despise. I’d be angry if I were you, too.”

His jaw grinds so roughly that I swear he might break his teeth.

I smile, then take a deep gulp of the lager. With an obnoxious sigh, I commend him. “You’re right. Torrent would’ve loved this.”