[Zevlor is right. Zevlor is nearly always right, which is both exceedingly annoying and incredibly helpful, depending on the circumstance. And yet . . . that's my job, some part of him wants to say. There's a dull flush to the tip of his ears for that reminder of bodyguard, though the gods know Zevlor has never once mocked him for the assertion. It's my job to keep him safe, no matter what— what good am I if I just let him fall?

He hesitates.]

Then how do you— how did you balance it?

[As one fighter to another. As one besotted warrior to another, how did he ever stand it? Kanan isn't Astarion, of course, and Zevlor was a commander, not a bodyguard, but still.]

I do not seek to coddle him, and I know you speak the truth: I cannot protect him from everything. Nor would I want to. I simply fear . . . so much of what happens here hinges on a single word, a glance. How can I let him learn such things when his aspirations are so high, and so easily shattered?