Ropati looked skeptical, but he said nothing of it.

“Fa’afli, sir,” he rattled off, not particularly concerned if this man caught it.

It had become something of a game to hear all the different ways it could be butchered.

“This way,” he waved him.

A few steps in, and Ropati slowed his pace with another glance toward … Fading Tulip.

“And … your name?” he asked, even more hesitant.

Too many men his junior had beseeched him to call him Father, but thus far Fading Tulip seemed harmless. His thoughts felt rude.