The woman, still holding the axe, sighed deeply. The weight of the iron didn't bother her, but the weight of what had just happened did. Her daughter remained clinging to her waist, looking at Strax as if he were something between a savior and a demon.
She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and said, her voice thick with exhaustion:
"You talk too much." Her forehead still glistened with sweat, and the sigh that escaped her lips was heavy as a crumbling wall.
Strax just smiled, that same sharp smile, full of sarcasm and infinite patience.
"Talk is cheap," he replied, stepping forward, his hands in his pockets. "But saving your life and your daughter's... that was much more expensive. A drink is the bare minimum."
The woman stared at him, her eyes hardened, but there was a different spark there now. Respect, perhaps. Or simple acceptance that, as much as she hated it, she owed something to this stranger.
