Lancelot lets out a slow breath, brow still furrowed. He's not sure why, but he had hoped this conversation might go differently. A naive thought, he supposes. To think she might see him any other way. Yet it's one he resents, all the same. To be seen as some sort of dog of Sylvia Redbright, simply because he doesn't hate her and want to bring her down.

"Nobody wanted a bloodbath," he says simply. He wants to argue further, but he knows the very thought is childish when simplified down to its core. You started it. He drops his eyes to his coffee, uncomfortable in the face of her bitterness. Maybe this was a bad idea. She doesn't seem interested in listening to him, despite what she said, or talking to him. Maybe she's just indulging him to size him up.