Or tension building.
“Let’s try something else,” he says, crouching slightly now, bringing himself closer to my level without closing the distance fully. “Tell me how he’s planning to break this.”
There it is.
I let my expression stay neutral.
“Who?” I ask.
His eyes narrow a fraction.
“Don’t waste my time.”
“I’m not,” I say. “You’re being vague.”
His hand lifts, not striking, just hovering again like he’s considering it.
“Verr,” he says finally, watching me too closely.
I let my gaze shift slightly, just enough to suggest thought without giving him direction.
“He’s not planning to break anything,” I say after a beat.
“No?”
“No,” I reply, leaning my head back lightly against the beam. “He’s planning to hold.”
That’s true.
Which makes it useful.
Krago studies me, his expression tightening slightly, like he’s measuring the shape of the answer instead of the words themselves.
“That’s not enough,” he says.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I reply. “It just has to last.”
He watches me for another second, then stands again, the motion smooth, controlled.
“You’re either very loyal,” he says, “or very clever.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“Why not both?”
That earns another faint shift of his mouth.
“Because one of those breaks faster than the other,” he says.
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
Time stretches.
Not cleanly.
Not evenly.
