Strax's patience was never easy to measure.
It wasn't ordinary patience, the kind worn down by small daily irritations, nor something that could be tested by shallow provocations or trivial conflicts. His was built in layers, like an ancient fortress, erected over experiences that few would even survive to tell the tale. He didn't react quickly. He didn't explode on impulse. On the contrary—he endured.
He endured discomfort.
He endured the mistakes of others.
He even endured chaos, as long as there was some meaning in it.
But there were limits.
And those limits weren't about him.
They never were.
Strax could be hurt, provoked, challenged, even betrayed—and still maintain enough control to analyze, to ponder, to decide clearly. His mind was too sharp to yield to pure impulse. His strength, too great to need proving anything at any moment.
But there was a line.
A very clear line.
And that line… that was it.
