I can scarcely imagine lyrium. Or bound slaves without a master. Or— [He turns his palm over to show that emerald blaze of anchored magic, still seething.] —this.

I'd say we're somewhat even, darling.

[But hmm. How to explain it. Don't mind him, Fenris, the way his ears tuck back behind his curls and the rise of a digit to his chin is just a sign of deeper contemplation, before:]

The nobility here. You've met their children?

—or been near them at one moment or another, surely.