"Yes, yes, Nav," she says dryly. "You are the world's most adept swordswoman, woefully cursed with the burden of overwhelming attractiveness. All shall fall at your feet and despair." Harrow watches her shoulder the bag again and hold out her hand--and, for a moment that feels like a myriad, she considers taking it. Instead, she keeps her arms at her sides, her fingers curled into loose fists.

The look she gives her, at least, is apologetic. "When we're home," she says, and tries to make it sound like a promise.