[Being keen would definitely reveal that there's something just under the surface, currently being smothered by propriety general well-manners. Even those who are not necessarily the most observant would probably find something rather off about Ardyn, though they would not quite understand why.

But at any rate, his words take on something apologetic. It's all false, of course.]

I know you were.

[Regardless, up comes his sword, hilt it one hand, the palm of his other gripped semi-tightly around the blade. The slides the sword across, cutting into the skin of his hand, swift and immediate, before she has a chance to say otherwise.]

But as I told you, it's only a small amount of harm.

[The sword is dismissed, put back into his magical hammerspace without a second thought. Meanwhile, Ardyn opens his palm, outwardly facing her so she can see the result.

It bleeds, but it doesn't bleed red. Only something black and viscous, with wispy, swirling dark essences emanating from the wound, not unlike smoke. It's an unnatural sight, really, if one were to really consider something like this writhing within him -- and yet his expression hardly changes.

Already, the wound is healing. A few seconds more and it'll be gone completely.]

In the grand scheme of things, it's truly nothing at all.