Marcus did not answer. There was nothing he could say that would not worsen what had already formed. His silence stretched, thin and brittle.
And in that silence—the truth settled. Thessian had not needed confirmation. But now he had it.
---
Thessian's expression shifted again, subtly, into something that resembled thought. And that unsettled the square more than any display of fury could have. Because thought, in something like him, was far more dangerous than anger. Fury spent itself. Thought is conserved and directed.
At length, he said, "Good."
The word landed strangely. Marcus blinked. His mind rejected it, turned it over, and found no purchase. It did not belong. Not here. Not after this.
"Good?"
The question was formed without permission. His voice cracked on the syllable.
Thessian's mouth curved. Not in humor. Not in mockery. In recognition—the expression of a man who had just watched an opponent reveal his own weakness.
"You've told me what I needed."
