Paralyzed in confusion, all I can do is stare sternly at the quill he's holding.
I'm certain I took it with me after he gifted it to me.
"Did you ransack my room?" I ask with a puzzled face.
He as if he's heard something amazingly disgusting.
"Don't pretend like you had it with you when you never did in the first place," he tells me with a growl.
This doesn't make sense, if he had it with him, then which did I have?
"I understand you didn't grow up experiencing the joy of luxury," he says in a low… freighting tone, "but! When someone gives you a gift, the least you can do is cherish it, even if you're poor and have nothing left."
His words dig deep into my soul as I tear up hearing his insult.
I take a few moments to calm down and walk around the room a bit to get my tears to be br
