"She was thrown into the chamber." He held her eyes, and his voice was carrying the flat informational tone, the specific tone that delivered half-truth with the same cadence as full truth and let the listener do the assembly. "She didn't enter the place. She was there for months."
The succubus absorbed this.
Her eyes moved to Soha — to the pregnant belly pressing against the blanket, to the dark damp hair, to the face that was carrying the specific expression of someone sitting in a story they haven't fully endorsed but haven't walked out of either.
She looked back at him.
She was calculating something.
He could see her calculating it — the specific assessment of a being who had survived whatever number of years in this pocket-world by reading people accurately, her demon-nature giving her a sensory toolkit for human motivation that went considerably deeper than standard observation.
She was going to ask something else.
He watched her decide not to.
