08:00 a.m. - At Caravan Gate, Dawnspire, 25 September 2025
Morning in Dawnspire moved like a river. Carts rolled in from the east road. Porters shouted for space. Hooves rang on stone. Sera stood in the flow, a plain cloak over simple gear, another low-rank adventurer among many. She listened more than she spoke.
She leaned beside a stack of crates when a cart wheel cracked. While the team fixed it, she watched. She counted guards at the East Gate, then the South Gate. She marked faces—old scars and calm eyes for veterans, tense shoulders, quick glances for new recruits. She noted when priests crossed to the temple quarter (second bell) and when two mages passed early with sealed satchels (first bell). She filed every detail away on a small sleeve-slate:
- East Gate: veterans (dawn → noon)
- South Gate: new recruits (dawn → third bell)
- Priests: temple quarter (second bell)
- Mages: early cross (first bell, sealed satchels)
Rumors drifted like dust between loads.
Porter (to another): "The quill pen isn't working very well. Yesterday I wrote four books and my wrist hurts a lot."
Teamster (shrugs): "If it keeps the ledgers clean, the overseer shouts less."
Driver (grim): "They're restarting a mine, I heard. Strict rules—rails, fans, a healer named on the door."
Guard (quiet): "Prison transfers at dawn bells. Fewer eyes then."
She slid to the caravan yard. A caravan master stood with a tally stick by the south road, checking seals. He had a long moustache, easy eyes, and a voice like dry leather.
Sera (mild): "Busy morning."
Caravan Master (dry): "Always busy when the council stirs. Paper runs ahead of men these days."
Sera (casual): "I heard about reviews. High kind. And priority prisoners."
He scratched a line on the stick, then tapped it once against his boot.
Caravan Master (low): "Morning transfers. Light escort. Magic wards do the heavy lifting."
Sera (nodded): "And the warding patterns?"
Caravan Master (shrugs): "Ask the mage. Or bribe a lantern boy."
He glanced at her cloak, then at the gate.
Caravan Master (flat): "If you're smart, you watch the bells, not the blades. Dawn bell once. Mid bell for food. Two bells for shift. Wards hum loudest between the first and second."
Sera (quiet): "Thank you."
He snorted, almost a laugh, and moved on to his next cart.
Sera stepped back to the shade of a quiet corner near a patched wall. With a fingertip, she sketched a simple map in dust—East Gate, South Gate, temple quarter, river road to the Bastion—then brushed it out with her boot. On her slate:
- Dawn bell transfers (light escort + wards)
- Wards strong: first → second bell
- Lantern boys reach inner halls
A lantern boy ran past with oil and wicks—quick feet, careful eyes. Useful.
Sera tilted her head. War had not come to Dawnspire's streets, but the city sharpened itself: fewer mistakes, quicker routes, tighter bells. If wards carried the weight, she would cut at the seam, not the plate.
Sera (to herself): "Find the seam. Mark the bell."
She fell in beside a hay cart and kept moving. Her face did not change, but her path narrowed around a single name whispered twice in rumor, once in warning, and once in a soldier's joke that didn't reach the eyes:
Lyscia.
09:00 p.m. - At Stone Lantern Prison, Dawnspire
Night laid a cold hand over the Stone Lantern Prison. From a roofline across the lane, Sera watched the outer walls in patient silence. She counted steps, lantern swings, and the slow breath of the watch.
- North wall: six guards, steady loop.
- South tower: one sleepy crossbowman, misses every third swing.
- Yard: two-man pair, talkative, breaks at first bell.
A faint shimmer rippled above the wall, like heat over summer stone. It was a ward—likely the Mage Council's work. Its rhythm pulsed with the city bells, stronger between first and second bell of the night.
Sera (whisper): "They tied it to the bells. Good. Clocks can be fooled. Stone cannot."
She slid down into shadow, wrapped her cloak tighter, and waved to a small figure by the corner brazier. A lantern boy—bare feet, quick eyes. She handed him warm bread and a copper coin.
Sera (mild): "Take a slow walk along the inner corridor. Ask something harmless when no one listens. Then return the same way. The question is simple: 'Who is kept in the deep cells?'"
The boy nodded, tucked the bread into his shirt, and slipped through the service gate with a swish of soot and smoke.
Time stretched. The ward's shimmer rose and thinned by turns, like a veil tugged by the wind. Sera traced along the outer stone with gloved fingers, feeling for seams and old repairs. She found three routes worth the ink:
- A culvert to the river—iron pins at the grate, the top pin new.
- A service door that led to the temple kitchens—low traffic before dawn bell.
- A rooftop run that looked perfect, but runes etched the parapet like teeth. Not tonight.
The lantern boy reappeared, breath fogging in the chill, eyes brighter than before.
Lantern Boy (low): "They don't say names. But… a woman with eyes like cold fire. Soldiers whisper she's a general. She doesn't break. She… she hums drill calls when it gets quiet."
Sera (softly): "Lyscia."
She passed him a second coin.
Sera (quiet): "You did well. Go home. Warm your feet."
He fled into the side street, little steps a soft patter in the frost.
Sera moved to a vent slit half-hidden behind a stone bracket. From her sleeve she drew a thin chalk stub. She slipped it through the slit and tapped the metal grate in short, precise patterns. Tap language—the kind soldiers used when chains made words too costly.
Sera (tapping against the grate): "Steel breathes. Dawn bells. Wait."
Silence. Stone held its breath. Then the lightest return—short, sharp, measured. The shape of an old rivalry.
Lyscia (tapping back): "Alive. Observe. Do not blunder."
Sera's mouth tilted, almost a smile.
Sera (under breath): "Still giving orders."
She pulled back and traced the ward line with the chalk, marking a tiny dot where the shimmer peaked strongest. She counted to sixty, then watched it thin to a hair. A pattern, not a wall. Patterns could be turned.
Sera (to herself): "Not a loud rescue. Not yet."
She set her plan like stones in a river:
- Learn the transfer rhythm at dawn bells.
- Learn the mage's ward cadence—when it swells, when it thins.
- Learn the escort composition—steel count, boot count, temper.
- Confirm the culvert pins and temple door habits.
- Place two cover stories in the ledgers—one true, one useful.
The ward brightened again. Footsteps passed above, a guard coughed twice. Sera melted back into the alley, cloak blending with old stone. She left nothing behind but a chalk dot the color of moon bone, small as a seed.
Sera (low): "Intelligence first. Extraction when loss is minimal."
The bells murmured the night's edge. Sera walked away without hurry, counting the spaces between her steps. She did not look back.
06:30 a.m. - At Market Clerk's Annex, Dawnspire
One week later, Mist still clung to the cobbles when Sera stepped into the annex hall. The small room smelled of ink, wool cloaks, and damp parchment. Clerks hunched over ledgers, scratching lines with careful hands. A brass stove clicked as it cooled.
Sera stood at a side desk with a tired scribe, a man with ink on his cuffs and a blotter worn smooth with use.
Sera (mild): "I lost a travel permit. I think it was filed wrong. Might I check the postings while you look?"
Scribe (tired): "Set your name there. I'll find it."
He waved her nearer without looking up, already muttering through a stack of pages.
Sera let her eyes wander to the open ledgers on the counter—delivery lists, room schedules, and a clean page titled "Transfers & Reviews." One line caught the light like a fish turning under water:
"Prisoner Evaluation Transfer: dawn bells, Second Day, Greywatch Bastion → High Council Annex (three-man escort + mage)."
She read it twice. Then she looked at the room code beside it—"Annex West, Room 3"—and frowned. On the notice board, pinned beside the ledger, the copy read "Annex North, Room 3." A small error. One letter changed the corridor, the guard post, and the ward door.
This was a lever.
Sera (casual): "Busy season?"
Scribe (tired half-smile): "Always. New pens make faster work, at least."
Sera (small smile): "Less smudge. More mistakes when rushed."
The scribe huffed through his nose and flipped another page.
Sera set down her sleeve-slate like a bookmark and moved away as if to stretch her legs. She stopped at a side table, took a small card from her pocket, and wrote a neat line in fine hand:
"Your error could change a door. Fix it."
She returned to the desk with a small cough and slid the card under the scribe's blotter with two fingers, smooth as breath. Then she waited.
The scribe found a permit—someone else's—and clicked his tongue. He lifted the blotter to reach for a fresh sheet and saw the card. He read it once. His brow pinched. He glanced from the board to the ledger line, then back again. With a sigh he took up his pen and corrected "West" to "North," then sanded the ink dry. He walked to the notice board and fixed the twin copy to match. He said nothing, neither did Sera.
Scribe (low, to himself): "Little things make trouble."
Sera (pleasant): "Thank you for looking. I'll return later."
She stepped out into the cool morning and found a quiet corner under a shuttered shop. On her sleeve-slate she added three short notes:
- Dawn bells, Second Day — Bastion → Annex.
- Escort three + mage — confirmed.
- Room code can be nudged (board/ledger must match).
She waited across the lane for a short while. A runner from the annex came out with a fresh posting and tacked it to a public board nearer the market. The route now showed: "Annex North, Room 3." The chain had accepted the correction.
Sera (under her breath): "The seam moves."
She watched the street wake—bread sellers lifting shutters, a bellman crossing the square. Then she turned her mind back to the prison map: culvert pins, kitchen door times, ward hum between first and second bell. The picture sharpened. Not a loud rescue. A small adjustment, then another, until the morning took the shape she wanted.
Sera (to herself): "One door at a time."
She pulled her cloak tight and headed toward the river stairs. A test at low tide would tell her if the new top pin at the culvert would hold or loosen. If it held, she would choose the kitchen path. If it didn't, she would put a quiet hand on the pin and make sure it held—until the right day.
She passed two clerks arguing over a room code and a quartermaster complaining about ward access stamps. She did not slow. She had what she needed: a proof that ledgers could be nudged without alarm.
11:00 p.m. - At Greywatch Bastion Cells, Dawnspire
Stone. Cold. The smell of oil and iron.
Lyscia sits on a low bench of rough granite, back straight, hands loose, breath even. In and out. Slow. She counts to keep time from breaking her mind—sixty for a minute, sixty again, four times for a bell. When her eyes must close, she does not sleep, she rehearses the map she has built in her head.
She models the guard paths: the limp of the older man on the second loop, the fast step of the new recruit who slams the bars when he is afraid. She listens for the ward's hum in the ceiling stones—strongest after first bell, thinner near the second. She times the warmth of the torch brackets. The one by the bend runs too hot at the start of a shift, a restless hand tends it too often.
Lyscia (thought): Keep the body quiet. Keep the mind sharp.
Footsteps pass, stop, pass again. Keys scrape. The ward sings its faint, steady note like a wire under tension. Her fingers twitch once—then she stills them. She will not tap on stone without reason. She will not waste effort where it will not count.
The chalk arrives near midnight—thin powder in the gaps of the vent slit, a dust only a trained eye sees. Then a soft, precise tapping through the grate. Short. Measured. Alive.
Sera.
Lyscia tilts her head so the crack between stones carries the sound to her ear. She does not move her body, she does not look at the vent. She listens to the pattern—plain soldier's code, the shared language they used when whispers were too costly.
Sera (tapping): "Steel breathes. Dawn bells. Wait."
Lyscia's mouth does not change, but in her chest, something tight releases one notch. She slides two knuckles to the base of the wall where shadows hold. Her reply is small and exact, each tap spaced like marching feet.
Lyscia (tapping back): "Alive. Observe. Do not blunder."
Silence. The ward hums. Boots grind grit. A door latch clicks, a lantern squeals as it turns on a dry hinge. She keeps her eyes hard when the guard passes her cell. When he moves on, she allows a single, thin breath to deepen.
Rivalry does not erase trust in competence. Sera cuts at seams. Sera does not rush the plate.
Lyscia (under breath): "If you come… make it clean."
She resumes her drills. She notes the new bruise blooming at her wrist where the chain rubbed earlier, she rolls the joint to keep blood flowing. She flexes toes inside rough shoes, counts the reach from bench to door in steady paces, then counts the bricks in the lower course: thirteen across, eight high, two patched badly. The patch holds colder than the rest.
She assigns names to sounds so nothing surprises her:
- The dull clack of the south key ring—older brass, heavier teeth.
- The thin scrape of a young guard who drags his scabbard when he is tired.
- The soft rasp of a priest's sleeve when he brushes the wall—heavy wool, one tassel frayed.
Her mind rewinds the day's echoes: the steady cadence of the morning prayer beyond the hall, the pause in the ward's hum when the bells crossed between first and second, the short argument at dawn—"Annex West" murmured by one voice, "Annex North" corrected by another. A clerical slip caught and sanded dry.
Lyscia (thought): Someone nudged a line today. Small. Clean. No alarm.
She lets the thought live and die in one breath.
Time stretches. She marks five short loops of the north patrol, then a longer gap that always comes when the yard pair stop to share news. She rubs a fingertip on the iron cuff, collects a taste of rust on her nail, and frowns. New oil earlier. Old oil now. They are not consistent—a seam.
In the lull, she closes her eyes and revisits the memory she refuses to let break her—storm-light over Eryndral, the press of trees, the snap of orders. Sera's voice in one ear, a chorus of field calls in the other. She had disagreed with Sera more times than she could count, but the work was always done. Sera did not waste men. Sera did not waste motion.
The torch near the bend sputters. The ward thrums, then steadies. Somewhere in the stone a mouse clicks its teeth. Lyscia catalogues it all.
She leans forward and taps once more—barely sound, just enough for the stone to carry.
Lyscia (tapping): "Thin hum—first to second bell."
A long pause. No answer comes. Good. Sera heard earlier. Nothing more is needed tonight.
Lyscia stretches each finger, presses each nail into her thumb to keep sensation bright. She sits back on the bench, posture perfect, neck loose, head high. If a guard looks in, he sees the same calm face he has seen each night. Eyes cool. No breaks. No pleas.
She tastes chalk in the air again, faint as moon-dust. A signal removed, a trace left—Sera's way of saying she will return without promising when. Lyscia accepts the rule. Intelligence first. Extraction when loss is minimal.
She counts her breath and lays out the plan she would choose if the roles were reversed:
- Wait for dawn bells on a Second Day when the ward's hum is weakest.
- Choose a morning when the escort carries one mage only—new hands, not the strict ones.
- Bend the ledger line by a hair—change a door, not the world.
- Cut at the seam—service door or culvert—no blade unless a blade is forced.
- Leave no bodies. Leave a question, not a trail.
Lyscia (whisper, the smallest smile): "Do it properly."
Footsteps return. Keys jingle. A lock lifts and drops two cells down. She counts to eight, then to thirteen, then to sixty. She lets the ward's hum settle into her bones like a steady drumbeat.
When the guard peeks in again, she meets his look. Unblinking. Unafraid. He glances away first. He always does.
Lyscia lowers her gaze to the floor and begins another round of counting and breath. She will not sleep. She does not need to. She has the bells, the hum, the heat of the brackets, and a code in the stone.
And Sera in the walls.
10:00 p.m. - At Old Culvert and River Stairs, Dawnspire
The Silverwyn ran slow and black under the moon. Sera kept to the river stairs, counting her steps by feel. Moss slicked the stone. The culvert mouth crouched low in the bank, a dark slit with a grate set firm against the current.
She crouched. Three iron pins fixed the grate. The bottom two were old—pitted, stained, stubborn. The top pin shone faintly when her lantern hood cracked a sliver of light.
New work. Someone tried here before.
She touched the top pin with a gloved knuckle. It rang cleaner than the others. Not tonight. Not now. She took out a thin wedge of oiled wood and slid it into the seam, only enough to bite without shifting the pin. A promise to her future self: time saved later, not a mark now.
Sera (under breath): "Later, not loud."
She mapped the triangle again in her head and on her sleeve-slate:
- Culvert → kitchen service → annex corridor.
She wrote short words to herself:
- Low-sound steps (bare, wet, or wrapped).
- Shadow pauses (behind buttress, under the north lamp, inside the arch lip).
- Ward flickers (first → second bell, hum strongest, thin near the cross-bell change).
She listened. The ward's hum drifted across the river wall—faint here, but there. The city bells would turn it stronger and weaker like a tide. Not a wall, a pattern.
She moved up from the river to the service lane that climbed to the temple kitchens. Two carts slept under canvas. She timed the back door in the cold. A sleepy porter stepped out once to pour dish-water into the runnel. He did not look left or right. He closed the door with his hip.
Sera (quiet to herself): "Three baskets before dawn, one after. Second bell: hand-off."
A man in a rough coat leaned by the lane corner, a small cart behind him—linen boy, eyes sharp, hands clean. Sera crossed to him and spoke low.
Sera (mild): "I need a cart at dawn. Empty crates. Quiet wheels."
Carter (low): "Coin first. No questions."
She placed two small silvers into his palm and showed him a plain docket with a scribe's hand that would pass a glance. The ink was neat, not too dark, not temple-black. It bore a simple mark any porter would ignore.
Carter (checking the docket): "Where?"
Sera (even): "Kitchen lane. No chatter. Stand by the drain spout. Two knocks if stopped. If anyone asks, you wait for bruised fruit from the south market."
Carter (short nod): "Aye."
She handed him a piece of linen with a stitch pattern at the corner—his sign to her when he was in place. He tucked it away and rolled his cart into the dark.
She took a breath. The last leg of her triangle ran from the temple kitchens up to the annex corridor—where notices were posted and small minds were busy. She knew now the chain would accept a simple correction if made gently. She would not break it, she would lean on it.
Sera (to herself): "In and out. No corpses. No noise. A message, not a war drum."
She knelt by the lower step of the river stairs where old mortar showed. With a small bit of charcoal, she scribbled one line and circled it with a tiny sigil of crossed blades:
"Your legend doesn't end in a cell. Wait for the bells."
The river answered in its soft way. The ward hummed in the stone. She stood and pulled her cloak close.
Assets in place:
- A quiet cart at dawn with empty crates and a true-enough docket.
- A false linen scrip with a routine hand-off line and no temple ink.
- A culvert grate with a top pin already kissed by a wedge, ready to ease if the river runs low.
- A map of pauses where the ward thins and shadows hold.
She checked her sleeve-slate:
- Choose a Second Day.
- Watch for a light escort (three soldiers + one mage).
- Confirm the same ward caster repeat or a new hand with sloppier cadence.
- Tap once more with Lyscia—short words only: "wait / move / split."
Sera breathed the cold and listened to the city. Far away, the bellman called the hour. She counted the spaces between sounds and left the river as she came—without trace, without rush.
Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But the lines were drawn. On the right morning—when the escort thinned or the mage rotation slipped—she would move.