Samira rested her chin on her hand, her eyes shining behind the dim light of the lamp. Ever since they'd arrived in Darion, she'd spent hours at the window of her inn's room, watching the streets—not out of idle curiosity, but studying. The clothes, the tics, the way the men walked: everything was an excuse for her to test her strength, predict movements, choose targets for amusement or care. There was a kind of hunger in Darion's markets that excited her—proud young men, veterans with scars like medals, and mercenaries with the look of those who'd already calculated the price of lives.
She put down her glass, walked closer, and stared at Strax with a mischievous smile. "Then I want to participate." The sentence came out lightly, almost an invitation.
