Yan Luo didn't move for a long time. Just studied me—unblinking, unreadable, like a man deciding whether the thing in front of him was art, poison, or both.
Then slowly, he exhaled. "A storm," he murmured. "That's new."
He reached up and unhooked the gold chain from his ear, tossing it idly onto a nearby tray. His robe had already slipped halfway down his chest, and he made no effort to fix it. Instead, he moved back toward his throne-chair, dropping into it like a predator relaxing into the tall grass.
"Tell me, storm," he drawled, draping one leg over the side again, fingers idly tapping his knee. "What kind of disaster are you hoping to bring me today? Flood? Famine? Fire?"
"I'm here for information."
"Boring."
"And leverage."
"Better." His eyes lit up like a fox that had just caught scent of blood.
