The short blond-haired squire subtly lowered their sleeve at the presence sensed near the gate.
A thin blade hidden inside their wrist slipped into their palm. It wasn’t because they felt danger. It was just a habit.
With a trace of caution, the squire asked,
“Do you have something to say?”
The Westerner barbarian, Enkrid’s comrade—Rem—was leaning by the gate. He stared silently.
There was no particular emotion in his gaze. In a flat tone, Rem spoke.
“Where did you learn that poison craft?”
