[ It makes him laugh, a quiet huff of a sound tinged with barely-concealed grey. (Nice. What the hell does that mean, here? Nice?) Cal's fingers run through the bowl, picking out bits that catch his eye; a lump of dried apricot, an oat, a flake of corn. ] Then Amyranth's full of the luckiest and nicest. [ A distinction: them, not us. (Not us; don't forget that. Not us.)

The line of contact between them is solid and sure because Cal, for as long as he has had a sibling, has tried to forge it so. Their point of contact solidifies that soft hum of kindred magic, the earthy brown that exists beneath Cem's sap and sage and his metal and wine; of things older and stronger than they are, given enough push. ]

Be careful. [ A quiet and low-whispered thing, as much warning as it is concern. ] No close-calls, Cem. Don't over-extend yourself.