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    Summary

    “Nah, it’s fine,” Tazmin waved him off. With his visual field now unobstructed, Rala felt there was something different about his battle-brother (fuck-brother, tunes-brother, buzzed-brother) as well.

    “Is your forehead bigger?” he asked, dubious about this.

    “Now who’s being a petty bitch,” Tazmin replied, but he held up his hand to cover his hairline which meant that Rala was right.

    “It’s because you keep pulling your ponytail back too tightly,” he said knowledgeably. “She-who-thirsts thinks you must want to go for one of those cone-skull kind of looks.”

    “Only idiots who obsess over practicing one sword-strike six-million times think that’s in fashion. And that’s not what I’m going for.”

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