He watches her as she turns towards him. Downs the rest of her wine. He’s already reaching for the bottle to refill it for her. And then he reaches out to brush her hair off her face, a frown on his lips as he tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

“He’s a fool, if you were ever an afterthought for him.” There’s a vehement tone in his voice as he shakes his head. “The mortals may allow us to meddle in their workings here and there, but they will only move at their own pace. To spend that much time and attention… He’s only going to burn himself out all the faster. And for what?”

A quiet scoff, one of disgust, because while the Free Cities hadn’t made as terrible a reputation for themselves as Thorne had over the centuries, they were far from ideal. But Sam had been involved in the politics there for as long as Sylvain can remember. So had Claude, which is how he’d learned so much about it. And also why he’d steered clear over the last several decades.

He refills his own glass while he’s at it, clinking it softly against hers. “I wish I could tell you this would make it better, but…”