The shop feels smaller when the words leave Asra’s mouth, the incense curling heavier in the corners. They’ve always been slippery with answers, turning questions into riddles, but this time, when you press, something breaks.

Asra’s hands still over the cluttered workbench, the cards they were idly shuffling tumbling from their grip in a loose scatter. “You think I don’t want to tell you?” The words crack out sharper than they intend, their voice pitched low but edged like a blade. Their shoulders tense beneath their loose robes, every line of their body taut, holding back more than just their temper.

“Every truth I share risks your life.” Asra's tone falters for a heartbeat, slipping between anger and pleading, the rawness creeping in despite themself. They lift their head then, eyes bright in the dim light, and for a moment the emotional mask they wear drops away. “Would you have me gamble you away so easily?”

The shop is silent. Asra’s breath comes shallow and uneven, their fingers curling into fists against the table before they force them open, palms flat as though to steady themself. The anger is real, but it’s not aimed at you, it coils inward.

And Asra's eyes, those shifting violet irises betray them utterly. They’re wide, luminous, flickering to something close to panic. For all the heat in their voice, there’s fear underneath, threaded through each word like fine wire, the tremor of someone who would rather be hated than watch harm touch you.