To having opposing views presented to him is no doubt a good thing. Ambrose is young, and hopefully he will exist for a very very long time, see all he wishes to see, do everything he hopes to do. He will find his own truths, and perhaps without the bias his sire would otherwise have filled him with. Very few vampires, and for that matter, very few werewolves spend any time outside of their sire or pack for a decade or so. Maybe that is the real source and continuation of so much hate.

But, Magnus muses, isn't it interesting that his blood will do nothing to sustain a vampire, and the flesh of vampires is ash in the mouths of werewolves. Of course vampires still bite werewolves, werewolves still tear chunks from the leeches, but that is simply a prefered method of fighting, tired and tested since the ancient times. If it works, why change it?

There's a slow grin that spreads on his face as Ambrose shifts, moving so that Magnus supports his head. It's a very intimate gesture, while not actually being extremely inappropriate. It's hardly as if the boy's head rests upon his knee. But even if it did, who would be here to see?

He lets his fingers stroke, gentle and careful, reassuring, even as he chuckles.

"Are you so sure I hail from there, mon chaton?" He asks, voice low as he smiles at Ambrose. But perhaps this is something they share, that both of them, in another life, knew that city. Magnus pauses his words for another moment, fingers still moving, ever attentive.

"I imagine her streets were never so dark as when I was there, if we must speak the truth." Not by Magnus' hand and not so very long ago, when the blood of kings and princes mixed with mud and excrement and the city burned with hellfire. It had been a cruel time, a horrible time: a decade of terror and fear. If the like ever came to Paris again, how could she survive?

"I would... like to see if she has recovered. And I do have possible business interests there."