Despite his majestic appearance, the Oathran they had come to know was an easy-going man. A patient mountain. After they truly knew him, he seemed like a man who had no buttons to push, no triggers to pull. A being so settled in his own eternity that nothing could ruffle him.
But Cecilia knew she had deliberately found and pushed those buttons at least three times now.
The first was when she'd insisted she was a fake Saintess, a fraud. He'd snapped, saying if he said she was a Saintess, then she was. Her denial of her own worth was his line in the sand.
The second was after she'd slapped him for offering her to Arkai like a legacy to be managed after his death. That had disrespected her autonomy that it broke his noble facade.
And the third… was just now. Two syllables. Daddy.
