One of them — the one in the wool cap — looked at him for a moment, without hostility or sympathy, simply with that quiet lucidity that dissects more than it judges. Then looked away, as if Dylan wasn't anything urgent to decode.
No one spoke.
Not yet.
The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the silence of hunting dogs on a leash. They were waiting. But not passively.
Dylan remained still, muscles seemingly relaxed, but every nerve alert. He knew this kind of moment. It was the calm before the first shot. The kind of calm where the one who speaks first gives up ground.
Then the barefoot girl slowly turned her head toward him.
"You don't look like a merchant," she said. "Don't smell like one either."
Her voice was soft, like a breathless melody, but her gaze remained fixed, unsettling.
Dylan raised an eyebrow, without standing.
"And you look half-asleep on your feet. Doesn't stop you from opening your mouth."
A silence slid over the group — thin as a blade.
