[ That knot in his stomach binds tighter, making his limbs feel light and his heart race quick enough for a veil of sweat to his forehead. Lyney's not feeling his best, a dull ache in his ribs and a shiner blossomed just enough for tension under one eye but – making sense of something like this feels important. ]

... You've read my intake files, Wriothesley. Probably more than you needed to. [ Trying to find a place where Father could be pulled into this equation – Lyney's not ignorant to it. The chair Lyney claims is left lonely as a hand pushes Wriothesley back. The boy follows slowly, silent as he replaces chair with lap – confident in how he moves even with his impairment.

The welcomed squeeze of his free hand was comfort and Lyney doesn't shy away from it. ] As the Greatest Magician Fontaine has ever known... I keep secrets close to my chest. Things that were once mundane turn to magic in my hands. Tricks buried in time become props for me to play with. But this...

[ Lyney's free hand snaps, that napkin he left with Wriothesley slipping between his fingers and held between them as some proof of what remains between them. ]

We want the same thing. That's the most frustrating part of it all. Isn't it?