"Because I don't lie."
Hearing that, Priscilla blinked.
Her brows lifted—ever so slightly.
"…Haah?" she exhaled, caught between disbelief and outright insult.
Her tone wasn't cold this time.
It was baffled.
Because that—that—was his answer?
"You don't… what?"
"I don't lie," he repeated, lips brushing the rim of the cup as if he were making a toast to his own absurdity.
She stared at him.
Stared.
Then leaned slightly forward, crimson eyes narrowing.
"That," she said slowly, "is the most ridiculous thing I've heard since Lord Varren claimed his horse recited poetry."
He chuckled into the cup, clearly unfazed.
And then set it down with a soft clink, his gaze flicking back to hers with a devilish gleam beneath the calm.
"Perhaps," he said, "but he was lying."
Pause.
"I'm not."
Her glare sharpened.
