The bright spark in Daeran's eyes as they parted quelled any protest Ariadne could have mustered, not that she'd been of a mind to reprimand him for the kiss to begin with. "I, for one, am glad you've gotten over whatever reservation prevented you from indulging my need for public displays of affection," she said instead with a laugh. "Though, don't look now, but Galfrey looks positively livid." "Ha! As she should! She threw me into this mess hoping I'd acquire some sense of duty and responsibility, no? Perhaps she should have been careful what she wished for." As he said this, Daeran took her hand in his, twirling her away from his embrace. That almost did earn him a protest, but the change in his expression stopped her. He wasn't looking at his cousin, or any of their surrounding friends or allies to see if their kiss had scandalized them. Instead, he was smiling down at her softly. "Though, there is one thing we need to discuss," he said, trying and failing to affect a sober disposition, "About your title, going forward."

The real Sword of Valor—not the booby-trapped decoy they unfortunately found first—had been left to moulder on a scrap-heap. Daeran placed a hand over his heart. “Who knew demons had a sense of poetry?” A terrible enough fate, but Seelah guessed the only reason the holy relic hadn’t been burnt or defiled was that even the most powerful demons were afraid to touch it, and besides, no matter how bitter he’d grown, Staunton would never have let them scrap it for privy rags.