Not with the peace of night, but with the thoughtful stillness of a place that preferred not to be seen. Shrouded behind tall hedges and crumbling stone, the estate lingered just beyond the palace grounds like a watchful beast—respectable on the outside, but ever vigilant.
Mira crouched on the southern rooftop of the manor, hidden between two wind-worn gargoyles. Below, the household slept beneath a blanket of false security. She had come alone—as she always did when silence mattered more than strength.
Tucked within her coat: a charcoal sketch. A ring. A crest. And a name scribbled in Elias's hand: Lord Harran Vellador.
The lord who had slipped away early from the feast—citing an ailing hound—vanished into the fog without stirring suspicion. But Mira had followed. She always followed.
Now, her fingers moved swiftly, looping rope around a carved window post. One silent slide later, she slipped into the manor's library.
The air was thick with dust, varnish, and something sharper—burned citrus, maybe wax.
She scanned the room. Histories. Economic treatises. Herbals. All properly dull. All calculated.
Except—
The fire pit still smoldered.
Mira stepped closer. Beneath the ash, something shimmered faintly. A corner of paper poked through the embers. She grabbed the hearth tongs and drew it free.
A ledger fragment. Vellador's seal still intact.
The ink had warped under heat, but the numbers remained:
Four barrels ghostroot tincture. Shipped via Thornbridge route. Sanctioned by H. V.
Her heart stuttered.
Then—a footstep.
Just beyond the library door.
She vanished into the folds of a velvet curtain, silent as stone.
Two voices. Male. One older, crisp. The other younger, anxious.
"The girl's alive. The steward failed."
"He'll be silenced, my lord. The Falcon doesn't fumble twice."
"Let him try. The next strike won't be wine—it'll be her brother."
The chill reached her bones.
The footsteps faded.
She counted to sixty. Then slipped into the hallway and disappeared into the dark.
By dawn, she was back at the palace.
In the rear alcove of the chapel, Elias waited—plainclothed, a sword hidden beneath his cloak. Mira handed him the charred scrap and signed, quick and precise:
Harran. Confirmed. Ghostroot by his hand. Eladin is next.
Elias studied the paper, then her.
"Then we strike," he said, "before the second blade falls."