The next day, the morning air was bright but brisk, like it couldn't decide whether to be pleasant or a little hostile—much like Vyan when woken up too early.
Inside the plush confines of the royal carriage, Vyan lounged with one leg crossed over the other, idly staring out at the streets of the capital while twirling a ring between his fingers. Across from him sat Clyde, looking far too chipper for someone who had very recently lost two fingers.
"You know," Vyan began, glancing at Clyde, "I have to admit… those fake fingers look disgustingly realistic. It's a bit creepy how well they blend in."
Clyde grinned proudly, wiggling his hand in front of Vyan like a child showing off a macaroni sculpture. "Right? My Athy is a genius. She healed up the stubs and patched them up with these beauties. Man-made, magically fused, and finger-lickin' functional."
Vyan blinked. "…Did you just describe your prosthetics as finger-lickin'?"
