The silence that followed that word was dense, almost physical, as if it had its own weight. None of the men moved, but several swallowed hard, the sound too small to break the tension that dominated the inn. The owner had already cowered behind the counter, silently praying to whatever deity might still hear him, while the few customers who hadn't managed to leave stood motionless, trapped between the fear of running and the even greater fear of drawing attention.
Strax stood still for a moment longer than necessary, as if granting the world one last chance to correct its own stupidity. His golden eyes calmly scanned the room, registering details irrelevant to anyone else: the soft creak of an old beam in the ceiling, the smell of hot grease beginning to burn in the kitchen, the trembling hand of one of the men gripping the hilt of his sword too tightly.
Then he moved.
