[ yikety yikes. this story is striking some unpleasant third house echoes, isn't it! royal siblings are all over fucked up, even when they're not twins, apparently.

she doesn't move a muscle when he destroys the projector, striking faster than she would've guessed. not like, camilla the sixth, human greasefire fast, but decidedly naberius the third-ish. it's a resemblance she could've done without. it's also making her feel very badly about a certain crown princess, too, for reasons better left unexamined.

the smashing seems like a good move, though. she opens her mouth to say something tactful about tragic dead brothers and instead comes out with: ]

That's rough, buddy.

[ somewhere in the ether of dimensions, harrowhark nonagesimus and captain aiglamene and the sixth house and magnus quinn-even-though-he's-dead are all wincing.

well. maybe not harrow. harrow is used to the absolute dipshit things that come out of her mouth. ]

Uhhh sure, yeah. Why not. I got a little place nearby that isn't doing puppet shows.

[ even if he'd yelled at her to sod off and leave, she probably wouldn't have. friends don't leave friends alone when they're upset and feeling stabby! ]

So... hold up, doesn't that mean you're the king? Are you a 'Your Gracenessness' instead of a 'Highnessness?'