"When you're not tired and wounded?" Griffith asked, aware of how narrow his victory had been the day he'd claimed Guts. And yet he remained absolutely certain that he would triumph again, if he ever really needed to. Guts would always be his. Griffith would not allow anything else.

He squirmed comfortably beneath Guts, enjoying how Guts felt above him, and nuzzled at the side of Guts' head, pressing a few possessive kisses against his short hair. "Why would I ever agree to that?"

So they are agreed, which is to say that Griffith has decided what he wants and the world will simply have to bend. They will resolve his curse. He will keep Guts. He will keep his castle. There will be no more about this nonsense about roads and starvation.

"You are mine," Griffith murmurs, soft with affection. He curls his arms possessively around Guts, winding around him like a creeper vine.