He leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I swung at him, and since I was flustered (hence my clumsy movements), he ducked.

“Prepare to die, thief,” I warned, advancing on him.

“Milady, it pains me to see the word ‘thief’ fall from your lips,” he said, sighing dramatically and putting a hand over his heart.

My anger sizzled.

“The name’s Rioghnan, my fair lady, but you can just call me Rio,” he said, smirking triumphantly.

“Why don’t I just call you ‘the guy who died at my hand?’” I said, circling him dangerously.

He gasped in mock horror. “Oh, my lady, that is far too morbid for someone cheerful and lovable such as I.”

“You haven’t seen morbid things, little one,” I snorted, partly at his ignorance.

“Morbid is when you see your comrades’ bodies strewn across the floor,” I hissed, locking eyes with him. “Morbid is when you see the dark hordes marching upon you and you cannot run away.”

There was silence for a while.

“So do not speak of morbidity, little one. You have much to learn.”