"Councillor." It is a brief echo of exasperated student, reframed. "Have you a reason you are so eager to speak my name with such emphasis?"

It is rude, and it is more than she would allow herself with anyone else, mouth clamping shut as soon as it is spoken, fingers curling towards her palms, one hand still resting on the staff across her lap. Calmer, again, "I apologise. That was... inappropriate and rude. Perhaps you are right."

It was the Marcher demon girl that the Senior Enchanters lamented, more than once, not the Knight-Enchanter that stalked chevaliers and made them regret all the ills they inflicted.

"They think me a monster. Those others here." She had seen the way they looked at her when she readied her blade, and when she was covered in the blood of a child. It doesn't matter, what others thinks, but—
it seems fitting, and terrible unfitting, in the same moment,