I slide more ale into my mouth, knowing damn well that I’ve already had too much of it. I can drink glass after glass of wine, but this is a much more potent concoction. I smack my lips and consume a great deal more.

“I wish I could tell you,” I say plainly.

I extend my legs and point my toes. Sliding my tongue across my teeth, I wonder how I'm going to answer. How do I explain an unknown force that urges me to do things, appeared just as his friends were about to die? And that I must do as it demands, or I become drenched in insufferable discomfort that only grows with denial?

I take another ill-advised drink before declaring, “I don’t have any friends.”

The retort jolts us both back. Braizen’s brows are knit; he expects me to elaborate. Gods, this drink is much too strong.

“It’s just… It's… Well, it’s as I said. I’ve been alone for a very long time. I don’t have any real friends. Teddy and Lachlan might count, but I’ve only seen them twice in my life because your father would have me decapitated before letting me travel to Aeradian freely. Seeing you all together, you and your bandits, made me envious. I think I saved them because I’m lonely.”

Immediately I bring my cup to my mouth, but there are only a few measly drops left. I lean back and shake them onto my tongue.

Braizen stares intently at me. I don’t know what to do. I squirm and will myself to stare back.

“Next question,” I cough and pretend not to be humiliated by the honesty in my response. “Do you still think of me as an enemy?” I lean forward, squinting like a lunatic. Surely this new question will make him forget the last one.

Braizen seems to feel the heat of this examination and straightens himself to answer.

“Hmm,” he muses. “Yes.”

I blink a few times, then let out a sharp laugh. He’s not wrong, yet I can’t help but feel wounded by his blunt answer. A roll of nausea uncurls in my gut and I rub my sleeve against my mouth. Perhaps I shouldn’t have drank so quickly.

His words pull my attention back. “But only because you want to be. I think you want to hate me, and I suppose it’s easier if you think I hate you too.”

I’ve no idea what to say. The ale begins to drag me under, and my mind floats; it’s all too excited at being close to him.

“You’re wrong,” I state, though I didn’t give my tongue consent to say this.

He studies me closely.

“I am?”