06:00 a.m. - At Safe Room Above a Tanner's Shop
The safe room smelled of tannin and old leather. Under the slanted roof, a narrow window looked over the back lanes. The table held a small lamp, a cup of water, a rolled map of Dawnspire, and Sera's narrow wax tablet with a bone stylus tucked beside it.
A boy from the lower streets slipped a folded packet under the door and vanished without a sound.
Sera locked the bolt, broke the seal, and read the coded line twice.
"Strike at the Stag. Make the bells ring."
Procession: three days from now.
She fed the paper to the lamp's dish and watched it curl into ash.
Sera (low): "Orders. And no sense."
She set the ash aside, then laid out her notes from the kitchen lane—tidy marks scored into the wax with a bone point:
- Ward casters: Magister Halvian on Second Day (long hold between first and second bell).
- Thin window: two dozen heartbeats after the bell change.
- Temple gate habits: lazy guard checks wax only, porter signs quick, doesn't read.
- Annex corridor: left open for runners when seals rise.
She unrolled the city map. Lines ran from High Street to Temple Quarter to East Rise. She sharpened a bit of charcoal and wrote three words on the edge:
Execute. Feint. Abort.
Then she built the three-path plan.
1. Execute — Clean Long-Range Attempt
- Tool: a compact arbalest she could break into two pieces, wrapped in a linen roll.
- Vantage: a closed workshop loft above the candle maker's on High Street, view to the royal crest.
- Shot timing: only after the bell change, in the thin window—two dozen heartbeats—one breath to spare.
- Exit: down the rear trap, into the dye canal, cloak-swap in the alley shade.
She set her palm flat on the map. Killing here would lock the city for days. Runners pinned. Annex closed. The kitchen lane hardened. Lyscia's door would never open.
Sera (to herself): "Not your theatre. Rescue window first."
2. Feint — Draw the Shield, Map the Response (Sera alone)
- Tool: her own small bow with a single bolt fletched to whistle, cord waxed for a clean cut, a spare cloak rolled inside the sleeve.
- Place: a shadowed doorway opposite the candle maker's, a step from the Founding Stag arch.
- Action: loose the whistle bolt high on drum-roll, drop the bow into a dye trough, cut the cord, cloak-swap, vanish under the arch.
- Purpose: count the seals—north corridor first, west cordon second—confirm the annex lane remains open for runners, listen for the ward chant's hold and slack, mark the guard-captain's hand.
3. Abort — Use Panic to Nudge the Ledger
- Tool: a clean annex correction strip ("North" not "West"), brown beeswax, a bone seal-ring, a runner's moment.
- Trigger: if the hum holds too tight, or the mage cluster changes cadence, do not shoot, slide to the annex lane and feed the correction into the chain.
- Purpose: keep the city permeable, keep the prison morning soft.
She set three bundles on the table:
- Bundle A (Execute): arbalest limbs, two fine bolts, a linen roll, a grey cloak.
- Bundle B (Feint): her small bow, a whistling bolt, waxed cord, a knife to cut the string, a second cloak the colour of wet stone.
- Bundle C (Abort): a clean docket in market hand, plain beeswax, bone seal-ring, two chalk stubs, the annex correction strip.
Sera's hands moved to the work they knew. She checked the bowstring, dragged beeswax down its length to keep it quiet. She touched the fletch of the whistling bolt, felt the notch with her thumb. She unrolled a length of plain linen and practiced the cloak swap: grey to dun, dun to grey, one breath, no flutter.
She bared her forearms and flexed the half-moons of scars at her wrists. Wrist-locks worked cleanest if you felt the hinge, not the meat. She placed her thumb in the hollow under the jawline and pressed just enough to break a breath. A reminder. Quiet first. Always quiet.
The room held still. Even the lamp-flame seemed to listen.
Sera (to herself): "Names. Bells. Hands. Habits."
Outside, Dawnspire's roofs took first light. The city hummed—low carts, a guard's cough far off, the faint thread of a ward through stone. Surrounded by enemy cities, the breathing here felt precious. Drakensvale cloak-knots had walked the guild yesterday, and in tavern talk a spider-and-crescent sigil had crept like a rumour through ash. Belmara pressed Drakensvale's spine, Drakensvale pressed Aurelthorn's gates. The city would tighten at the smallest noise.
She thought of Lyscia in the stone dark—back straight, chain quiet, breath even. She heard the tap reply in her head, pared to bone: Alive. Observe. Do not blunder.
Lyscia's maxim breathed in her: We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act.
Sera (dry): "Uh huh."
But acting was not shouting. Acting was choosing the door that opened, not the one that burned.
She marked the days in clean lines.
- Day 1 (today): walk the route, note shutter lines, roof angles, and guard faces, mark the candle maker's loft, measure distance to crest, test the dye trough for depth.
- Day 2: stage the spare cloak near the Stag arch, cache a reed-wrapped bundle by the dye canal exit, check the Founding Stag's stair shadow when the sun moves, reconfirm Halvian's cadence on the hour.
- Day 3 (Procession): choose at first bell after seeing the mage's hand. If Halvian holds—Feint or Abort only. If an apprentice mis-times—Feint only, no Execute unless the slack is wider than expected, and even then, only if the rescue window survives.
She wrote one more line on the map's corner:
Rescue window first.
On the wax tablet she scored the friend-work that mattered, the quiet things that kept names clean under siege:
- Keep Toren's belt ring out of enemy hands.
- Leave Mira's ledger neat and unquestioned.
- Annex runners pass when seals rise.
- Kitchen lane remains forgettable.
She doused the lamp until the flame licked low. The safe room's stink of tannin clung to her cloak, good—dogs hated it. At the door she slid a thin splinter into a crack in the jamb—a tell, if someone opened while she walked the route, the splinter would fall.
Sera (to herself): "If they want bells, give them echoes."
She paused at the bolt, breathed once with the ward's thread like a soldier counting. Then she slipped into the stairwell and down into the tannery smell, the bundles chosen, the plan set clean:
Feint if the hum holds. Abort if they rush it.
Rescue window first.
11:30 a.m. - On the Procession Route, Dawnspire High Street
High Street wore its festival face. Banners hung from windows. Priests stood by the road. Soldiers held a straight line. The smell of tallow smoke and crushed rosemary mixed in the air.
The ward hum was there—soft at first, then stronger as the hour came. It ran through the stone like a tight string. Sera placed two fingers on the wall and counted the pull.
Halvian's style, likely—orderly, long hold between first and second bell.
Sera stood in a shadowed doorway near the Founding Stag arch. Her spare cloak was rolled inside her sleeve. A small bow sat under her cloak edge. One bolt had a whistle fletched to draw eyes. Her plan from the safe room was simple: Feint if the hum holds. Abort if they rush it. Rescue window first.
She checked faces. A captain at the crest favoured his right hand. Near the banners stood robed mages. Light bent around a tall staff. The apprentice flinched at the crowd. The tall one did not. His voice was calm.
Aemond (calm, instructive, to his apprentice): "Stay sharp, everyone. Tactical advantage comes from the elements we control."
The hum steadied a little. Sera adjusted a little.
A priest lifted his hands. "May the Staglord's light guide the day!"
Sera (to herself): "Guide them to look the wrong way."
Drums rolled from the east. Sera breathed out. She raised the little bow, aimed high, and loosed. The bolt screamed.
She moved at once—cloak off, grey cloak on. She dropped the bow into a dye vat under a cloth and cut the string with a quick stroke. Shields snapped up along the line. Priests pulled bell-ropes. The ward went hard.
Sera slipped under the Founding Stag arch and counted.
- One, two, three: the north corridor sealed first—two ranks, shields locked.
- Four, five, six: the priests' chime steadied the front rank.
- Seven, eight, nine: a west cordon formed with spearpoints out.
- Ten, eleven, twelve: two watchmen broke from the crest, eyes up, not down.
- Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen: the Annex-side lane stayed open. Runners must pass.
The crowd swayed. Sera let it move her one step, then stilled against the post.
A man with a Drakensvale belt-twist pushed close. Soft hands. Wrong eyes. He brushed Sera's sash, feeling for a small seal-ring.
Sera let his wrist come into her hand. She turned it past the hinge until the joint spoke. He hissed.
Sera (low): "What?"
He reached for a knife. Sera stepped inside his breath. She pressed her thumb into the hinge of his jaw—gentle, sure. His breath broke. She set him against the doorpost like a drunk finding the wall and took the knife as if returning a lost comb. The blade vanished under her cloak.
Sera (whisper, flat): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
He looked at the calm in her face. He chose life and slid into the bodies. The crowd forgot him.
At the crest, the tall-staff mage held his hand high.
Aemond (calm): "Do not underestimate our foes, nor let pride dull your senses."
The hum held. Sera felt the thin window coming—the slack after the bell change. Lyscia's rule breathed in her chest: We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act.
Sera (to herself): "Uh huh."
She slid along the shopfronts and watched the captain's signals—three fingers cut, a wrist turn, a head tilt. North line closed on cue. Second line bowed to the west. The Annex lane stayed open because it had to. Paper still moved when steel locked.
The bells crossed. The hum held, then thinned.
Sera counted the slack with her pulse.
One… two… three… up to two dozen.
She took the gap.
She moved under the cover of bodies along the left-hand shops. Near the Annex, a runner argued with a clerk.
Runner (tight): "West."
Clerk (testy): "North."
Sera did not stop. She pressed a narrow strip to his wrist and left it there.
Sera (even, passing): "From Mira's window."
He checked only the neat hand and the clean crease. He slipped the strip under the cord. The clerk swore, tied fast, and pressed blue-grey wax with a steady seal. Perri's work—straight as a spear.
Back at the crest, lines corrected. The crowd's shout fell to a murmur. Shields stayed up, eyes came down. The ward eased. Sera marked who kept order: Halvian's steady hold. Aemond's calm voice. Annex open at fifteen. North first. West second.
Two watchmen rushed down a side street, hungry for someone to blame.
They saw Sera's hood and nothing else.
One grabbed for her wrist. Sera turned with his reach and walked his thumb into the door's angle until the joint whispered. The second caught her cloak edge. Sera set her heel behind his foot. His shin met stone. His breath left him without a sound.
Sera (mild): "Wrong door. I'll move."
They had orders and eyes for the banners. They let her go.
Sera took the dye stairs down to the runnel. She rinsed her hands. Above, the bells steadied. The procession rolled on toward Palace Spur. Sera climbed a second stair and fitted herself into the softer noise. A vendor's cry broke and found itself again. Priests smoothed robes and lifted hands, as if a chime could mend a day.
She looked once at the mage cluster. The tall staff did not lower while others shifted. Halvian's hold kept true. Aemond's voice cooled hot ranks.
Sera stepped into a deep doorway and wrote fast on the wax tablet inside her sleeve with a bone stylus.
Notes:
- Ward lead: Halvian (long hold).
- Aemond present, voice keeps ranks steady.
- First seal: north corridor (three counts or less).
- Second seal: west cordon (nine counts or less).
- Annex lane open at fifteen.
- Thin window: about two dozen heartbeats after bell change.
- Drakensvale belt-twist active in crowd—watch for seal-ring thieves.
She let the tablet warm under her sleeve and took a slow breath. Dawnspire had shown its reflex. Surrounded by enemy cities, the city still had seams. She would cut only the one that opened Lyscia's door and leave behind only questions.
Sera turned toward the Annex lane. Paper would decide which door opened at dawn. Her friends' names would pass. Then she would open the right door.
12:00 p.m. - Procession Crest
The bells met in the air like crossed blades. The crowd held its breath. Banners settled. The ward shone along stone and shield—iron‑tight, then easing by a finger's breadth as the chime faded.
Sera stayed in the press under the Founding Stag arch, hood low. The feint had done its work. Lines had snapped shut where she'd expected. The Annex lane had breathed open by necessity. Paper moved even when steel locked.
She did not repeat the count. She already owned it.
A peeler's hand hooked for her forearm, eager for blame. Sera turned with his reach, let his grip find nothing, and walked his thumb into the door's angle until the joint whispered. His partner stepped in. She let the cloak tilt, hid her right shoulder, and set her heel behind his foot. His shin met stone. His breath left without a shout.
Sera (mild): "Wrong door."
They had orders and eyes where the banners flew. They let her pass. She was already no one.
On the Annex side, a harried clerk pushed into the lane with a bundle of runner slats. A runner argued with him at the threshold—two slats, one room line.
Runner (tight): "West."
Clerk (testy): "North."
Sera didn't stop. She pressed a narrow strip to his wrist and left it there.
Sera (even, passing): "From Mira's window."
He looked only at the neat hand and the clean crease. He slipped the strip under the cord. The clerk swore under his breath, then tied fast and pressed blue‑grey wax with a steady seal. Perri's work—straight as a spear.
Sera kept moving. No pride. No pause.
Across the crest, the tall‑staff mage did not lower his hand until the last shield steadied. Aemond's voice reached like cool water through heat.
Aemond (calm): "Do not underestimate our foes, nor let pride dull your senses."
The hum held clean, then slackened to the thin window she had measured in darker lanes. Two dozen heartbeats to cross a bad space. Enough to open a right door.
A man with a Drakensvale belt‑twist tried the crowd again—soft hands, wrong eyes, reaching for her sash where a little bone seal‑ring might ride. Sera met his fingers with quiet certainty, turned the wrist past its hinge, and let a breath break under the thumb's press at the jaw. She set him to the arch as though helping him stand.
Sera (low): "What?"
His eyes measured the calm in hers. He chose to live and slid away into the bodies. The press forgot him.
Sera slipped to a deep doorway and drew her wax tablet, bone stylus quick and light.
Wax tablet (notes):
- Feint held, Annex lane open in surge.
- Perri sealed "North" clean. Chain accepts correction.
- Halvian's hold steady, slack after chime unchanged.
- Aemond present, ranks calm under voice.
- Peelers tense, redirect with simple shame.
- Drakensvale belt‑twist working the crowd—watch the seal‑ring.
She warmed the tablet under her sleeve and breathed slow. Dawnspire had shown its reflex. Surrounded by enemy cities, the city still had seams.
Sera (to herself): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
Lyscia's maxim lived in her hands, not her mouth.
Two watchmen turned the corner fast. Sera let them go by, eyes on the banners like all men with orders. When they passed, she stepped into the Annex porch shadow and checked the board at an angle. Perri's blue‑grey wax set hard around the room line. The cord knots sat neat. The slat would not move without a councillor's hand.
Good.
She took the dye stairs down to the runnel, washed a smear of wax and dust from her fingers, then climbed a second stair back to High Street. The roar had fallen to restless talk. Priests smoothed robes and lifted hands again, as if a chime could mend a day.
Sera turned for the narrow lanes that fed the temple quarter. Paper would decide which door opened at dawn. The seam held where she needed it.
She let the city's hum settle into her bones—the bell's after‑voice, the ward's thin slack, the crowd's uneven breath—and moved.
Next:
- Cache cloak and cord by the Stag arch.
- Confirm Halvian at last bell.
- Walk the kitchen lane once more at poor light.
- Keep the runners' names clean.
She felt the weight of other cities at Dawnspire's edges—Drakensvale's black tide, Belmara's spider in the cords—and set her jaw.
Rescue window first.
04:00 p.m. - Back Alley, Near the Inner Court
The alley was narrow and cold. City noise was thin here—one cart wheel, a far bell. Sera slipped into a small room above a shuttered shop and set the bolt. The air smelled of dust and old rope.
On the table: her wax tablet, a bone cipher‑disk, a strip of parchment, and a thumb of brown beeswax.
She wrote her report in clean, short lines. No pride. No waste.
Report (encoded):
- Procession mapped. Ward surge measured.
- King lives.
- Annex lane stays open during seal.
- Thin window: two dozen heartbeats after bell change.
- Likely ward lead: Magister Halvian. Aemond present, held rank steady.
- City still permeable in south‑east corridors.
She turned the cipher‑disk, shifted the letters twice, and read it again. Then she sealed the packet with plain wax—no crest—pressed flat with a bone ring, and slid it into a crack in the wall. A runner would lift it at dusk.
Sera (low): "This was never about a kill."
She checked the room. Window slit clear. Floor clean. Latch tight. She lifted the bolt and stepped back into the alley.
The street was a slow river of boots and breath. She walked with the tired, head down, cloak closed. Three corners later, she stopped to tighten a shoe strap and watched the reflections in a puddle. A man lingered at the mouth of a side lane. Wrong belt‑knot. Drakensvale twist. Soft hands.
Sera rose and turned into a narrow cut where noise died. She paused by a door hinge and let him draw near. When he reached for her sash, she turned with his reach, took his hand, and walked his wrist into the door's angle until the joint spoke.
He hissed.
Sera pressed a thumb under his jaw—light, sure—until his breath caught.
Sera (low): "What?"
His eyes found only calm. He nodded. She let him go and stepped away. He chose to live and melted back into the crowd.
A bell changed far off. The ward hum rose and tightened, then eased. She counted the slack with her pulse. Twenty‑four. The number held.
Two messengers crossed at the next turn. One wore a leather tube on a cord. In the knot, a crumb of black wax showed like a fly in honey. Sera brushed past at the corner, let the cord snag for an instant, and moved on. She waited until their boots faded, then crouched and picked the crumb from the stones.
A silver crescent and a spider leg lay shallow in the wax.
Belmara.
Later, outside a tavern where runners drank weak wine, a rough scrap of paper changed hands. Sera traded a warm roll and a copper for a look. The note held five words, jagged and fast.
Courier scrap (coded): "Shadows cross—second river holds."
Sera (low): "They push deeper into Drakensvale."
Surrounded by enemy cities, Dawnspire would feel each pull. If the Empire bled men to its east, it would lock doors here and call it order. That would kill the rescue.
She stood in the lane until the cold reached her bones and her anger cooled to shape.
Sera (to herself): "Rescue window first."
She walked the long way back toward the temple quarter. No rush. No trail. She touched walls as she passed and counted lamp posts—old habit against tails. At a bend, two city peelers blocked the path and stared at her basket.
Peeler (flat): "Let's see what you carry."
Sera lifted the cloth. The top layer held clean rags, a coil of cord, and a plain docket sealed with brown wax. Under the cloth, the little saw and iron key were wrapped and tied.
Peeler (suspicious): "Docket?"
Sera handed it over. He looked at the wax, not the line. He nicked the edge with his knife and waved her on.
Sera (mild): "Wrong door."
She moved past them. No heat in her face. No sound on the stones.
At the river stairs she stopped and listened. The Silverwyn slid black and slow. The grate she had checked on other nights waited under the bank. Tide would be low before dawn. The wedge would hold. The path would open.
Sera set her plan in simple steps:
- Second Day at dawn. Three soldiers, one mage.
- Annex North, Room 3. The correction holds.
- Thin window after the bell. Two dozen heartbeats.
- Kitchen lane: use clean brown wax, the lazy guard looks at the circle only.
- Culvert: top pin eases, wedge ready.
- If the ward grows early: abort. Draw eyes to the annex. Reset.
- If the lane clogs: split. Drain path, two turns, safehouse at the rope walk.
She let one more line live and die in her chest—Lyscia's way, pared to iron.
Sera (under breath): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
Then she turned from the river and let the city's hum settle into her bones. Names would pass. Doors would open. And one door would open for the right woman to walk free.