Astrid tilts her head; a curious sparrow. “Least you already chose to go,” she offers. “It’s not like you caught the shard and that forced your hand; that’d probably feel even shittier, something else choosing for you on top of them tryin’ to choose for you.”

Following the universal instincts of a bartender, that delicate sense for when someone could do with more of a terrible drink, she reaches out the bottle and pours a little more into both their cups.

“Can’t magisters marry?”