Gabe’s smile is very thin. “You will,” he replies simply.

The locals always find an excuse for practical demonstrations. They wouldn’t call it that, he knows, but the result is pretty much the same in the end. The status quo must hold. All hail their benevolent god ruler, same as every warlord he’s ever crossed path with before—himself included, Gabe supposes distantly. The Tyrants march to a certain song now. But he tells himself they at least don’t pretend to be anything more than what they really are deep down. There’s a purity in that, an ugly truth.

And then he thinks of his son, and his daughter, and he stows that shit down tight. Drinks his tea with a hiss. “Mhmm. Little old me? I’m just wandering around making friends. Figuring out what everyone can do.”

He smiles again, lifting his cup in lazy or perhaps mocking salute. Piece by piece, he’s figuring out everyone’s capabilities. What they’re willing to do. The sort of violence they might craft, or how he might position them as shields or allies when the time comes.

“People talk to me. I just got one of those faces. Guess I look trustworthy.”