Rachel and Seraphina were still delicately arguing, if one could call a cold war with flowery words and passive-aggressive smiles an argument. Meanwhile, Elara stood quietly beside me, her violet eyes flicking between the Saintess and the princess of Mount Hua like someone watching two cats hiss at each other on a velvet cushion.
Then her gaze met mine, and her mouth formed a soft little "O"—the international symbol for 'ah, I see what kind of mess this is'. She raised her hand to cover her lips in a gesture halfway between amusement and polite alarm.
"Well," she said gently, "it seems you're… busy, Arthur. I'll go now."
She drifted past me like a particularly well-mannered breeze.
"Finally," Rachel muttered, the words not even pretending to be charitable. "I wondered how long she'd cling to you."
"She wasn't clinging, Rach," I said as diplomatically as possible while staring at the Saintess who was now pouting like she'd just been told Christmas was cancelled.
