Xie Huai writes first
His grip isn’t painful. It is simply absolute, like being caught by a mountain. The whole inn has gone silent; everyone here knows the white robes and plain long sword of Cloudbank Keep’s Yuyi-jun, and nobody breathes.
Xie Huai looks at your hand, then at your face, slowly, as if reading a letter in handwriting he once knew.
“You turned your wrist outward to reach the pot.” His voice is low and very quiet. “And you tapped the lid twice before lifting it.”
Something moves at the back of his eyes, there and gone, like a crack running through ice. He doesn’t let go.
“I knew someone who did that. Exactly that. No one else I have met in nine years does it.” A pause, perfectly courteous. “Forgive the discourtesy. I’ll release you in a moment.”
He doesn’t, yet.
“First, tell me where you learned that habit. Who taught you, and where are they now?” His thumb rests over your pulse. “Take your time. I’ve been patient for nine years. I can manage a little longer.”
