[b]“That’s rough…”[/b]
	“A living nightmare,” Elayra offered in a monotone, rubbing her fingers together where some of the grease from the fry stuck to her skin. “But it is what it is. You move and adapt, or you die.” She reached for another fry, this one a tad bit more soggy than the last.
	A silence fell in the shack, broken only by the sound of Drust pulling out his own fries, and examining the cardboard that held them, the logo on the bags printed on its front.
	When Ghent began speaking again, Elayra raised her chin slightly and looked at him with a stony gaze at the way he said her name, but did not complain about it. At least he used it.
	Anger flashed over her face at the suggestion of him being a candidate for her prince, before she caught on to his teasing tone. Her anger turned into a forced cold impassiveness on the verge of being frightening. She picked up the sheathed dagger as absently as she could, and drew it, apparently examining the wavy blade for any damage as she leaned back on one hand.
	“A katoka has a greater chance at ‘winning my heart,’” she began with deliberate slowness, her tone matching her expression. The blue blade glinted mockingly in the light as she turned it over, “than someone incompetent enough to be bested by a simple mud puddle.”