He expects the maelstrom of emotion in his belly to intensify the closer Sova comes, but instead the opposite happens. He watches her from where he lays reclined beneath the gnarled, dead tree, and experiences a strange sensation. He’s becoming numb, as if her proximity is injecting anaesthetic into his veins. His brown eyes are glassy from exhaustion, but otherwise his face is completely neutral as he looks upon her. For a moment he contemplates rising to stand with her, then thinks better of it.

It's almost frightening to realize he doesn't care anymore. Or do I?

Encantador lets out a heavy sigh, but when finally he speaks, his voice is calm and friendly enough. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells her sincerely, but as he continues, there’s the smallest hint of venom creeping into his words. “They all leave eventually.” Searching her face and inspecting the crescent moon of white on her forehead, he knows he’s given himself away, that he’s shown himself to be nothing more than a bitter little boy denied his toys. He looks away from her, as if the dead ground is much more interesting.

Without moving or shifting his gaze, he continues. “Where did you go?”