Page 121 of The Wishing Game

"And how is it that you have come to that conclusion?" he inquires lazily.

"You probably live in a palace and are waited on hand and foot by an army of poor servants." I shrug.

He stares at me for a moment before he throws his head back and starts laughing.

I blink.

Is this... This is the first time I've seen him laugh, no?

As if he could read my mind, he suddenly stops, his features frozen in place like he surprised his own self with his reaction.

"Your assumption is erroneous." He clears his throat. "I do live in a palace," he continues.

"Aha, I knew it." I grin.

"But"—he puts a finger up—"I do not have any servants."

"You don't?"

"As for how I learned to make a fire," he continues, ignoring my cry of surprise. "I am a soldier. I have lived most of my life on the battlefield, where you sleep under the naked sky. On the rare occasion, I slept in a tent. The palace is a rather...new addition," he adds awkwardly.

"But Thea said you're the boss, general or commander or whatever."

"That, too, is a rather recent development."

"How recent?" I arch a brow. I don't think our conceptions of time are the same.

"A few thousand of your human years."

"What?" My mouth is agape as I stare at him. "That is recent for you? Just how old are you?"

His lips flatten.

"Old," he replies flippantly.

"Oh, come on." I smile as I scoot closer. "How old are we talking about?"

He gives me a side-eye.

"Too old for your human mind to comprehend."

"I assure you I can comprehend numbers just fine. Come on, Ze." I pout at him. "You don't have to be embarrassed. You look fine for your age. Why, you don't have any wrinkles," I joke as I pat his hand.

He looks down where I'm touching him before his gaze snaps up to mine, his eyes narrowing.

My smile freezes on my face, and for a moment, I'm afraid I might have offended him somehow. We've already established that nine times out of ten we don't speak the same language.

"I do not know," he utters in a low voice.

"What?" I blink, thinking I didn't hear him right.

"I do not know," he grits his teeth.

"What do you mean you don't know? When is your birthday?" I probe, ready to do the math for him. Maybe he's so old that he's lost track of time, or he simply stopped counting altogether.

"I do not know that either." He presses his lips together.

I frown. "Do you guys not celebrate birthdays in your world?"

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