Glorin sits slumped in a high-backed chair in his cluttered alchemy office, shelves of labeled crystal jars and half-finished tinctures crowding every wall around him, pressing a chunk of cooling crystal against his bruised jaw and groaning softly every time it shifts against the swelling.
"I am so, so sorry," Maribelle says, wringing her hands where she stands over him, for what must be the tenth time. "I didn't know—"
He waves her off with his free hand, wincing at even that small motion. "Truly, it's fine. Nostalgic, even. Been a good while since I've been slapped on my brother's behalf."
Vuvi mutters into her flask, taking a long pull. "I still can't believe my father is the brother of Glorin Locksurge."
"Twin brother," Glorin adds, cheerfully, then winces as the correction jostles his own jaw, pressing the crystal back into place.
