Mikael stopped a short distance from him, near enough that his words would carry without effort, yet far enough to preserve the intentional gap between them.
From where he stood, he studied what the merchant revealed without intending to. Fenric's head was bowed, denying him a full view of the man's face, but not enough to hide its shape.
His cheeks looked slightly hollowed, traced with darkened stubble. A few strands of dark hair had slipped free from the tie at his nape, dusted with snow and stiffened by the cold.
There were lines at the corners of his mouth, not deep, but earned, the kind left by years of measured speech rather than idle laughter.
Even without eye contact, the man held himself with quiet control. His back was straight, his footing sure, weight evenly set as though he expected to stand there for as long as required. There was no nervous movement, no attempt to fill the silence.
