“So, you’re Prince Shwaan,” he said, walking slowly into the room, his gait precise and deliberate. Ashwin said nothing, just stared at him with an expression somewhere between apprehension and amusement. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“If I say it is, will you feel compelled to stab me again?”

Ruban shrugged, nonchalant. “Depends.”

Ashwin sighed. “I suppose it’s just as well. I am Shwaan, yes. In the interest of full disclosure, though, I should warn you that if you do manage to kill me, my sister will have your head on a pike so fast you wouldn’t know what hit you. She can be quite heavy-handed that way.”

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“Is that a threat?”

The Aeriel shook his head. “Quite the opposite. It can be rather embarrassing to have your sister swoop in to defend your posthumous honour after you’ve managed to screw up enough to wind up dead. I’d rather not put either of us through that ordeal, if it’s all the same to you.”

After a few seconds of contemplative silence, Ruban said: “I suppose we can work with that for the moment.”

“Okay.”