"Me."
The word did not need anything more to wound the room, and Trafalgar hated that part most of all. He had said it as a fact, because facts were easier to handle than fear, but Mayla's fingers tightened around his hand at once, Cynthia stared at him with the pale, hollowed expression of someone being forced to accept that danger could have a bloodline, and Aubrelle's unfocused red gaze remained angled toward him while Pipin stood so rigid beside her hand that even the bird looked offended on her behalf.
Cynthia was the first to find her voice, though it took her a breath to shape it into something that did not crack. "How do you say that so calmly? You are talking about people from an ancient bloodline possibly wanting you dead because they blamed your mother for something that happened before you were even born, and you say it as if you are discussing bad weather."
"Bad weather is harder to stab," Trafalgar replied.
