The distance is quite short; he’s settled with a fraction of his weight balanced down into the tip of his knife. He’s busy thinking about her answer -- too busy to stifle a wince when he has to adjust against the handle digging into his grip.

He is watching her as closely as he ought to be, though, one ear turned to the camp beyond them. Ridges in his cloak betray armor beneath it.

His investment in living isn’t what it could be these days, but he isn’t un-invested.

Politely, begging her pardon:

“Like who you’re working for or who I’m working for?”