On the other hand, Reiner—supposedly the calm, sensible one—was talking like a goddamn teenager trying to bullshit his way through a grown-up conversation.
'Seriously? This guy's the chosen hero? He sounds like me when I'm pretending I know what the fuck I'm doing.'
Artis rubbed his chin thoughtfully, though his inner monologue was anything but deep.
'Maybe it's just his tone. Or maybe he's secretly as clueless as he looks. Either way, it's nice to know the guy who's supposed to save the world has all the gravitas of a drunk frat boy at his first wine tasting.'
And then there was the woman.
'Ah, yes, Daphne.'
No doubt about it—this was the infamous slave-turned-bodyguard of the elven princess.
A cat warrior with the attitude of an orange tabby: fiery, temperamental, and maddeningly alluring.
She was the kind of woman who could slit your throat one moment and make you beg her to do it again the next.
