There it is.
I fold my arms, watching it happen. Varek doesn’t press or interrupt. He lets the quiet stretch just enough that the truth starts to loosen on its own. He’s done this a thousand times—pulling answers apart with nothing but timing and silence.
“Define ‘enough,’” he says.
Clean. Precise. No wasted breath.
“Two patrol passes instead of one,” the male admits. “They didn’t enter the lower channel.”
“Timing?”
“First at second bell. Second just before fourth.”
Varek gives a single nod. “Spacing is narrowing.”
The insect-limbed one leans forward slightly. “They’re testing routes.”
“Yes.”
The agreement arrives without friction. Varek takes what’s useful and keeps the conversation moving, no need to stamp his authority over it.
His gaze shifts to the third. “South bridge checkpoint?”
The human straightens. “New post. Six guards. Rotating in pairs.”
“Glowranth?”
“Fiver. The other is Riftborn.”
“Leadership?”
“Not visible.”
Varek holds his gaze a fraction longer. Long enough that the human exhales. “There was a runner. Moving between posts.”
“Direction?”
“East.”
Varek inclines his head, already assembling the pattern. “They are coordinating between districts.”
I shift against the wall, tracking the flow of it. He builds a picture in real time, piece by piece, pulling threads from three different people and weaving them into something usable before they even realise they’ve given him enough to do it.
“Canal watch,” he continues. “Before or after the midnight bell?”
“After,” the blue-skinned male says. “Consistently.”
Varek tilts his head. “Consistently?”
The hesitation comes quicker this time. “Three nights ago it rotated early.”
“Reason?”
“Unknown.”
Varek studies him, then adjusts the word with quiet precision. “Unobserved.”
The correction clicks cleanly into place.
