Karnala and Renard were locked in place, their hands clasped tightly over the table, bodies pressed together in a frozen tableau of panic. Both turned sharply toward the door like startled predators, eyes gleaming, jaws tense.
Between them, Arabella sat stiffly, her arms spread wide as if shielding a delicate, trembling egg about to hatch.
Lastor paused at the threshold, blinking slowly. "…What, in the name of all decency, are you doing?"
Karnala and Renard glanced at each other. Arabella, ever the desperate improviser, straightened with a snap.
"Arm wrestling!" she blurted. "They're arm wrestling."
A silence fell.
"…Why?" Lastor arched a brow, eyes sliding toward Renard. "An arm wrestle. Against a woman. How gentlemanly of you, Mister Renard."
"There's a reason!" Arabella rushed to say. "It's, it's because there's something important at stake. Something that could, uh, alter the course of their entire relationship!"
