Had it burned her so, knowing that the Edge King was displeased with her? His eyes narrowed a fraction, barely noticeable, as he listened to her bright voice. So at odds, the gentle lilt of her voice with the frigidity of her appearance. Was it truly a monarch's regard she worried for, or was it the other side of the coin - that she cared not what he thought, but wished to make amends for herself, because she was displeased with her own reaction? Both were equally possible. As a King, he had met so many shallow and vain individuals, who fawned at him and fell at his feet, bowing and smiling their false smiles while they waited for him to elevate them and their silver tongues to high status, before striking a horn in his back. And each and every time he met them, he loathed them, cared not for their elegant, pretentious movements. He only cared for the fire in their hearts and the steel in their spine, both which those bowing cretins usually lacked. The very concept of losing sleep over what a ruler thought about you was, to him, foreign. If she came, simply because she did not want to look bad in the eyes of a King... well. That was her problem. Or was it so, that she saw him not as a King, but as an individual? Some did, and he appreciated it, but with her, he was not sure. And she did not mention Deimos. Did she wish to forgive him his attack, too, because she'd been "such a child", or did her revenge, her shrill, dark promise of repaying him eye for an eye still stand? Could she break her own oaths, despite having given them at perhaps not the sanest of moments?

His words gave her pause, her movements stalling, and he stood where he was regarding her curiously. Had she expected him to be bitter and angry, wishing her to leave, perhaps even growling at her? Mauja was hardly a rude creature. Rather, he was the type to smile, pretend to forgive and forget, and then invite you in for tea. Whether or not he had asked his dear Doctor to poison the tea or not was another matter entirely. Still, he knew this round of the Russian roulette was safe - he had not brought Deimos with him, intended not to lure her into the shadows and spring his necromancer upon her. No. It was easier to not actively loathe, but he would not forgive, either, by will though, and not by simple biology. She was pleasant enough to be around, beautiful to look at, and she seemed keen of mind - he liked the sound of her voice, the gentle tinkle of her laugh, like a brook in spring. He knew that there could lurk wildness in it, a bitter and untamed edge; she was her own silver lining, hiding the dark of a storm cloud. For now, he would enjoy what she had to offer, but her allegiance had her doomed in the end. "Are there so many ghosts in that skull of yours, that you need to hide from yourself?" he asked with a small smile, stepping forth from his border, leaving the ash-stained ground behind. Out, away, from the deep, dark secrets of his trees. He did not trust her. He did not want her in there. Out here? Of course she could be here.

She smiled sadly and he found himself curious about her demons, that in herself which she sought to hide from; ever curious as he was, it came as no surprise, but it was a thing he knew he was unlikely to ever learn of. The secrets that niggled at his inquisitive mind the most were the personal ones, the traumas of a childhood or the long, sad tales of abuse - or the ones of greed and ambition, fallen kings and riots. Those were the things he desired to know the most, and the ones that were the hardest to pry loose from the hearts in which they lay. Few were inclined to share such intimate things with strangers, and even if he would've had the time to wriggle his way into her good graces, some things were never spoken of. So he resigned himself to the fate of always wondering, but never knowing - to store the enigma of her being along with all the others he had met, mysteries their owners took with them to the grave, never for the FrostHeart to know. "I am the son of snow," he said, a vague smile playing across his face, as if secretive. "This summer has nearly driven me mad, and now that the chill of autumn is finally on the way, I prance like a lunatic." He tossed her a rakish grin, elegantly sweeping past her and facing towards the west. He wanted to forge on, bull ahead, not want to give her moment to comment on his statement of lunacy - it was a thing best left as it was, not dwelt upon or even addressed. "There are other things of beauty to witness here. Have you seen the ocean from on high?" he asked, as if nothing at all had happened - as if he'd said nothing at all about prancing.

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