“It’s difficult to make a case without knowing what your reservations are.”

He can guess.

He is guessing, the off-axis tuck of his chin already offended by some slight he’s imagined -- a matter of personality, or ability, or trust, as so often seems the case of late. It’s almost certainly his martial ability -- he thinks to the meaty clop of a Shriek’s blade into his thigh. Even in his dreams he’s pathetic.

It doesn’t really matter. The cold knot in his gut is the same.

“How deadly will it be for you?”