Strax placed his hand on Samira's, still resting on the aged map. His fingers, covered in scars and battle dust, contrasted with her skin—tense, vibrating under his touch, like a string about to snap.
"Not so fast."
Strax's voice was not a sudden halt. It was an ancient wall, full of cracks, but still standing. Firm. And laden not only with reason—but with the silent pain of one who has buried plans, allies, and regrets.
Samira slowly turned her face. The look she gave him was sharp, like steel fresh from the forge. There was fire, there was pride. But behind that... exhaustion.
"What do you want me to wait for? For him to come to me again? To send another message burned into flesh?"
Strax kept his tone steady, but his eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but in remembrance.
"I want you to think."
He withdrew his hand from hers carefully, as if pushing away something that still throbbed.
