For a fraction of a second, something flickered in her expression. A micro-frustration. The seer's equivalent of biting into food and finding it tasteless.
"He's clean," she reported.
Her voice was flat. Automatic. The voice of a tool delivering its measurement.
Clean.
No hidden intentions. No secret plans. No threat assessment beyond mild curiosity about whether the meat was fresh.
Gathrax's eyes narrowed.
For just a moment, the smile flickered. The fat man's small, bright gaze moved from Vessa to Cruxius and back again, weighing, calculating, running the numbers.
Then the smile returned.
"Good! Good! A man with nothing to hide is a man I can work with!"
He clapped his hands.
The duplicates all clapped at the same time. The sound was perfectly synchronized, eight sets of palms striking in unison, filling the hall with a single, unified noise.
Soha's hand had not left her belly.
