[ For the first time since they found each other, Felix allows himself to laugh—just a small thing, more like a puff of air exhaled with the barest hint of a grin, but it's there. ]

As if I'd be that careless. You know me better than that.

[ Casual arrogance on the surface, though Felix is well aware of his own skill level, but beneath that, it's a promise and a reassurance. He knows there are no promises in war. Battlefields can't be planned for, not stray arrows nor well-placed explosives, but he has no intention of dying either if he can help it.

Besides, he needs to see for himself if Dimitri can really become the king he ought to be, when this is all over.

Some of the tension has gone from him, over the course of the conversation, enough that Felix finally sits back and stretches his legs out instead of crouching by the fire like some sort of irritable gargoyle. ]

...You know you don't have to keep wearing all that heavy armor? I'll tell you if anything's coming. You reek of sweat.