If Emilia is somewhat nervous, it might be difficult to tell, the confidence that she projects making up for her shorter stature. She survived the Feast of the Wolf, when all eyes on her were vicious and predatory — she can survive one auction, strange as it feels not to do more for their cause.

With a grim exhale, she loosens a breath in her chest, and turns to her friend with curiosity. By now, she is more familiar with blood magic than she ever thought she would be, and the burn itself more so. Fire makes sense to her skin, to her magic, and accepts it readily once she understands.

The ghost of a smile twitches on her lips. "Always modest, Wrathion."

In this case, not wrong.

She looks around surreptitiously, noting some of the jitters from the staff, the openly armed guards. A real distraction it is, then. "I only need to ... think in your direction?"