[ Both of those things are probably, almost definitely, true. Kostos glares at her anyway. He glares for several seconds, in fact, while his brain sludges through and discards three ineffectual arguments and a blurry fantasy of reaching out and smacking the bottom of her mug so the liquor pours down her face. ]

It wasn’t yours, [ he settles on, and if he’s only half-coherent, that’s frequently his average when sober, too. ] It’s ours. All of ours. The next time you decide to have a temper tantrum, maybe you should—

[ He has no idea what she should do. He pulls his ale closer to his chest but doesn’t drink it. ]

—you shouldn’t.