“You seem to be taking this whole rightful-heir-of-the-throne news rather well, Egbert.”
John looks up at you in surprise, bristling at your sudden and silent entrance. You bite down the urge to smirk and seat yourself next to him, the tiles warm from the waning sun.
He waits a moment before shrugging, fingers worrying the hem of his tunic. “I knew you wouldn’t lie to me,” John says, voice soft, and something in your chest clenches, “—plus, it’d be the worst joke ever.” His face then splits into a grin, brilliant and cunning all at once. “And if I become king, I get to appoint you as my knight!”
It surprises you how much you want to laugh, your face betraying you with a lip twitch that John won’t miss — but alas, you have a reputation to uphold. You raise a careful eyebrow, giving the heir the patented Strider deadpan™. “The Assassino are creatures of darkness, boyking. We heel to no one.”
John, infuriatingly, laughs. Of course. “Daaaaave,” he begins — and you can hear the grin in his voice, the little shit — “Did you practice that little monologue just for me?”
Cheeks pink, you cuff him on the shoulder, and he just laughs harder.
