Night had fallen over the Moon Tribe's inn, a veil of quiet silver light cast across the courtyard. Within the dim glow of lanterns, Luciel sat behind a low wooden table, the faint scent of burning incense curling through the air.
Across from him stood Chren Po, shoulders stiff, face still faintly swollen.
"Count the beast spars yourself if you like," Luciel said, his tone calm but carrying the faint amusement of someone who already knew the outcome.
Chren Po hesitated, his fingers tightening around a small burlap pouch. "No need. You'll find the right number." He dropped the pouch on the table with the same reluctance one might feel handing over a family heirloom.
Luciel picked it up, weighing it in his palm. "No need to count," he murmured. "I trust you're an honest man."
His eyes, though, lingered on the faint red marks on Chren Po's cheek. A clear handprint. He could already guess how it had gotten there.
