[ Bastien laughs at the patting—and it’s odd, to genuinely laugh while balanced on the edge of what he used to be sure was a deep, dark secret. But maybe it isn’t. Yseult took it in stride. Of course, Yseult is unflappable even compared to him, and a Marcher herself. Maybe Byerly, who has never been Orlesian enough for Orlais or Fereldan enough for Ferelden, is in a better position to understand the knot this sort of thing might put in the pit of a young Royan’s stomach. And an old one’s.

Regardless, he’s laughing. He nips ineffectively at the finger closest to his mouth. And while he’s answering— ]

Neither of them did. They were Marchers.

[ —he realizes he isn’t really the least bit afraid of Byerly’s reaction. Even if there’s teasing, it wouldn’t be the sneering kind. ]

But I was born in Val Royeaux, so I still get to cackle and plot occupations. It is my birthright by soil.