09:00 p.m. - At a Moneylender's Loft, Dawnspire
The moneylender's loft sat above a shuttered counting room. No street light reached this high. Inside, a single lamp burned low. The air smelled of oil and dust. A brazier glowed like a small eye.
Sera waited by the table, hood down, hands still.
Boots took the stair. A courier entered, breath quick, a leather tube on a cord. He stopped when he saw the moneylender in the shadows and Sera at the table.
Courier (wary): "This loft is closed."
Moneylender (dry): "Tonight it opens for quiet coin."
Sera set two silvers on the wood. Then a half‑silver, slow and plain.
Sera (even): "I read. You deliver on time. No change to the outer cord. No new wax."
The courier hesitated. His eyes went to the coins. Then to the moneylender's blank face. He set the tube down.
Sera loosened the cord without cutting it. She used a thin sliver of bone and a strip of damp cloth warmed on the brazier lid. A breath of steam softened the knot. No mark. No tear.
The packet slid free. The seal was black. A spider wrapped a silver crescent. Belmara.
Sera did not touch the wax. She opened the fold at the edge where there was no seal. Three short sheets lay inside, written in a tight, cold hand. She read fast. Her face did not change.
- "Shadow raids at the river holds. Smoke in Varagast and Tross."
- "Border lords demand men. Loyal lines strain to breaking."
- "Detachments vanish after nightfall. Gates found open by dawn."
- "'Cleansing' and 'consolidation' ordered. Delay will break the spine."
Sera slid the pages back in the same order. She re‑folded the packet and warmed the cord again. The knot set clean. The black seal stayed whole.
Sera (low): "So that's your hand, Malakar."
The courier swallowed. His fingers twitched at his belt.
He moved too fast. He reached as if to snatch the tube back and run.
Sera stepped once. Her hand took his wrist and turned it past the hinge. Not hard. Precise. His breath broke in a hiss. Her thumb found the small hollow under his jaw. Gentle pressure. Control.
Sera (low): "What?"
His eyes found only calm. He stopped struggling.
Sera (soft, flat): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
She let him go. He did not try again.
Sera rolled the tube across the table. The moneylender did not blink.
Moneylender (dry): "You saw nothing."
Courier (quick): "I saw numbers."
He took the tube, tucked it under his cloak, and went down the stair. His boots were quiet now.
The room was still. The brazier's heat touched Sera's palms. The spider seal glowed black in her mind. Dawnspire sat between hungry powers. Drakensvale pressed Aurelthorn's gates. Belmara pressed Drakensvale's spine. If Drakensvale bled men east, Dawnspire would lock doors here. That would kill the rescue.
Sera opened her sleeve and drew the wax tablet. The bone stylus moved in short, clean lines.
Sleeve‑tablet (notes):
- Belmara pushes deeper. Border lords ask for men.
- Night tactics: doors opened from inside, detachments vanish.
- Drakensvale weakens, Aurelthorn will tighten wards.
- Handlers kept parts back. Do not trust the noise.
She slid the tablet away and checked the room: window slit clear, floor clean, latch tight. She lifted the bolt.
On the stair, a shadow moved wrong. A hired knife, posted late. Soft hands. The wrong belt twist.
He reached for her sash.
Sera turned with his reach, walked his wrist into the post until the joint spoke. His knife came halfway out. She pressed her thumb under his jaw. His breath caught.
Sera (low): "What?"
His eyes met hers. He felt the calm. He let the knife slide back into its sheath.
Sera (quiet): "Walk."
He backed down a step. She did not look back as she left the loft.
Outside, the street was a slow river—boots, breath, the faint echo of a bell. Sera moved with the tired. Head down. Cloak closed.
She passed a shutter that let out lamplight like a thin blade. A second courier crossed the lane with a leather tube. A black crumb clung in the knot. Sera brushed past, let the cord catch, and move on. When his steps faded, she bent and picked the crumb from the stones.
A spider leg and a crescent showed in the wax. Belmara again.
Later, near 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.
Courier scrap (coded): "Shadows cross—second river holds."
Sera (low): "They push deeper into Drakensvale."
She stood in the alley until her anger cooled to shape. The city's hum lay under her skin—the ward's thread, the bell's after‑voice, the weight of other cities. She thought of Lyscia in the cold cell: back straight, breath even, mind sharp. She thought of the thin window after the bell. Two dozen heartbeats. Enough, if the city stayed soft.
Sera (to herself): "No more theatre. Intelligence first."
She set the choice in iron.
Sera (under breath): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
Rescue window first.
11:30 p.m. — At South Tower, City Wall
The wind off the Silverwyn was cold. From the south tower, Sera watched the roofs of Dawnspire breathe. Lamps swayed. Alleys shifted. A late cart creaked over a stone lip. The city looked calm from here. It was a lie, and she knew it.
Belmara's black seal burned in her mind—spider and crescent pressed into wax. Shadow raids at rivers. Open gates at dawn. Missing detachments. If Drakensvale bled men to its east, Aurelthorn would tighten everything here. If the wards grew early, the rescue would die.
Sera rested her palms on the cold parapet. The ward hum reached her even up here—a thin thread under the night. She counted it without thinking. It matched the rhythm she had lived for weeks: bells, doors, ink, steps.
Sera (low): "Uh huh."
She thought of Lyscia in the stone dark: back straight, breath even, mind sharp. Rivalry did not break trust in skill. If there was one person she would cut a city for, it was the woman who held a line without noise.
Sera (low): "We pick our war. We pick who walks out."
A guard paced ten paces away, cloak tugged by the wind. He watched the river, not her. Sera heard his pattern—six slow steps, heel drag, pause, cough. She watched the way he leaned at each crenel. The wind covered small sounds. Good.
Boots came up the stair behind her, soft and wrong. Not the tower's rhythm. Not the river watcher. Another man edged along the shadow. He moved like a hired knife—soft hands, wrong belt twist.
He reached for her sash.
Sera turned with his reach and walked his wrist into the merlon's angle until the joint spoke. His knife came halfway out. She pressed her thumb under the hinge of his jaw—gentle, exact. His breath caught.
Sera (low): "What?"
He met only calm in her eyes. He froze.
Sera (flat, quiet): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
She eased the pressure. He nodded. She let the knife slide back into its sheath and guided him one step into deeper shadow. He backed down the stair, careful now. No scrape. No alarm. The river guard never turned.
Sera's hands were steady. The tannery stink still clung to her cloak. Dogs hated it. She liked that.
She rolled her sleeve and checked the thin slate tied at her forearm. Her bone stylus made small, sure marks.
Sleeve‑slate (final marks):
- Second Day, dawn bells. Halvian holds. Thin window = two dozen breaths after bell change.
- Annex corridor stays open during surge. Perri's seal holds "North."
- Kitchen lane: sleepy porter signs fast, lazy guard checks only the wax circle, knife‑notch used.
- Cart and docket ready. Market ink. Clean circle.
- Culvert top pin wedged. Low tide still likely.
- Tap words with Lyscia: "wait / move / split."
- Abort signal: double‑cough. Split signal: one sharp tap on wood.
She let the wind cool her face and closed her eyes for a breath. Below her, the city's lines ran like threads she had already tied: kitchen lane to annex, annex to river stairs, river stairs to the culvert mouth, culvert to the rope walk safehouse with the blue sash. A quiet chain. No heroics. Only timing.
A bell far off turned in its sleep. The ward hum rose a hair, then settled. She counted the slack with her pulse. Twenty‑four. The number still held.
Sera (under breath): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
Lyscia's maxim lived in her hands, not her mouth. She would act where the seam opened and leave behind only questions.
A flick of shadow moved below along the inner walk—another patrol, wrong spacing. Sera slid along the parapet stones where moss grew and weight did not ring. She ghosted past the tower slit and timed her step to the river guard's cough. His head turned to the water at the right moment. Her shadow never touched his.
At the stair throat, she stopped and checked her tells: a hair‑thin splinter under the stair lip (still there). A chalk dot at knee height (still whole). No one had searched this path.
She lifted the splinter, broke it with a whisper, and palmed the chalk dot away with a damp thumb. No trail.
She went down three steps, then listened hard. The wind from the river, the low talk of two watchmen below, the hiss of a lamp. No heel up here but hers. Good.
Sera pictured the morning again in simple steps:
- Dawn cart at kitchen lane before first bell. Empty crates. Stitched linen corner for the "ready" sign.
- Docket clean. Circle stamp neat. Market ink, not temple black.
- Lazy guard glances and tallies. He does not read lines.
- Bell change. Ward holds hard, then thins.
- Two dozen breaths: move crate, lift grate, left along the silt.
- If tide rises: inner drain route, two turns, rope walk safehouse.
- If priest notices ink shade: draw him to the annex while the cart rests under the awning.
- If lane clogs: split on one tap, meet at drain mouth.
She let one more line live and die in her chest. It made the choice simple.
Sera (low): "Rescue window first."
She slipped down the stair into the tower's cold and out to the inner walk. The city's hum settled into her bones again—the bell's after‑voice, the ward's thin thread, the weight of other cities at Dawnspire's edge. Drakensvale pressed one side. Belmara gnawed the other. None of that would stop her from opening one door for the right woman.
She pulled her hood low and joined the slow river of boots and breath. Head down. Steps quiet. She moved like any tired runner in a city that thought it was safe.
Tomorrow at dawn, the stone would learn it was wrong.
06:00 a.m. - At the Annex Board, Dawnspire
Dawn came slow, like a bell warming to its first toll. The annex lane smelled of damp ink and cold stone. Sera stood with her hood low, hands inside her cloak.
A clerk stepped out with a fresh notice. He smoothed the page, pinned it straight, and pressed blue‑grey wax neat and clean.
Notice (public):
- Prisoner Evaluation Transfer — Second Day, dawn bells
- Greywatch Bastion → High Council Annex
- Escort: three soldiers + one mage
- Room: Annex North, Room 3
Perri, the tidy clerk, tapped the corner to dry the ink. Then he stepped back.
Sera did not move. She let two passersby glance and walk on. Then she took the lines into her mind: the hour, the room, the count. The correction held. Paper matched the board.
Sera (to herself): "Window confirmed. Route confirmed."
A young runner warmed his hands by the brazier. Sera slipped him a folded scrap with a stitch at the edge.
Sera (even, quiet): "Kitchen lane. Before first bell. Same cart. Stand by the drain spout. Two knocks if stopped."
Runner (short nod): "Seen."
At the market lip, an old porter lifted crates onto a handcart. Sera passed him a plain docket with a clean circle in market ink.
Sera (low): "For dawn. Linen and baskets. Keep the circle clean."
Porter (squinting): "Aye. Stamp looks proper."
Sera walked the triangle once more: temple kitchens → annex corridor → river stairs. She counted lanterns, doors, and eyes. The ward hum was faint in the stone this early, but she knew where it would rise and where it would thin after the bells crossed.
Assets checked:
- Dawn cart: in place by the kitchen lane, empty crates, stitched linen mark for "ready."
- Docket and scrip: market ink, neat circle stamp, no temple‑black gloss.
- Culvert wedge: the top pin has already been pushed once, so bring a greased wedge and a thin tool to pry it open.
- Tap exchange: final message at last light—"wait / move / split."
- Exit paths: culvert to river if low tide, inner drain if high, safehouse at the rope walk (blue sash).
- Thin window: two dozen heartbeats after the bell change.
She set her abort signs in her head:
- Double‑cough = abort.
- One sharp tap on wood = split to drain path.
- If a priest notices the ink shade: draw him to the annex, cart rests under the awning.
A shadow peeled from a doorway—a city peeler with hungry eyes. He drifted close to her belt cord, fingers quick for the docket slot.
Sera shifted one step, as if to make room. When his hand reached, she turned with it. Her fingers caught his wrist. She walked his hand to the doorpost in a slow arc until the joint spoke.
He hissed.
Sera set her thumb under the hinge of his jaw—light, sure.
Sera (low): "What?"
His breath caught. His eyes found only calm. He nodded.
Sera (flat, quiet): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
She let him go. He stepped back and chose to live. He melted into the morning feet. No shout. No stain.
Toren cut across the lane with a bundle of notices, steps quick, ink still wet on his fingers.
Toren (light, to no one in particular): "Second Day brings tidy work. Rise before the cooks if you want quiet roads."
He caught Sera's eye, grinned, and kept moving. Sera did not slow. She had no more rooms to study. No more maps to draw. Only timing.
She paused under the arch and checked the board at an angle. Perri's blue‑grey wax set hard around "Annex North, Room 3." Knots neat. The slat would not move without a councillor's hand.
Good.
A bell far off turned in its sleep. The ward hum rose a hair, then settled back. Sera counted the slack with her pulse. Twenty‑four. The number still held.
Sera (under breath): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
She turned toward the river stairs. The Silverwyn would be low. The grate would wait where she left it. If the pin eased, they would take the culvert. If not, the inner drain.
At the stair lip, she checked behind her the way survivors do—shadows, reflections, tells. Clear.
Sera (to herself): "In and out. No corpses. No noise."
She moved down the steps into the river cold, her breath steady, her hands sure. Surrounded by enemy cities or not, names would pass, paper would open a door, and one woman would walk free.