04:00 a.m. - At River Stairs / Culvert
The Silverwyn ran low and quiet. Low tide bared slick stones on the steps. The culvert mouth sat in the bank like a dark eye. A grate covered it—three iron pins across.
Sera crouched. Her glove found the top pin. It was the new one—the one she had prepared days ago. She slid out a thin oiled wedge and a small pry of tempered bone. Slow pressure. One breath.
The pin shifted a finger‑width and held.
Sera (under breath): "Good."
She pushed the wedge a little deeper to keep the pin from slipping back. No rattle. No scrape. She marked a tiny notch with her nail on the stone by the seam. If the river rose to that mark, she would abandon the culvert and take the inner drain.
She checked the plan in simple steps:
Culvert route open: top pin moves, wedge holds.
If water rises: inner drain route, two turns, linen bales cover.
Exit: warehouse yard by the old rope walk (blue sash mark).
She stood and listened to the stone. The ward hum reached her faintly from the inner streets. It would rise with the bells, then thin. She counted with her pulse to steady herself.
Sera (low): "Uh huh."
A soft scuff sounded behind her on the steps. A city peeler, hungry eyes, slow boots. He drifted closer, too casual for the hour.
Peeler (flat): "Show me your papers."
Sera turned as if to obey. When he reached for her sash, she walked his wrist into the stair's edge until the joint spoke. His breath hitched. Her thumb pressed the hinge of his jaw—light, exact. Control.
Sera (low): "What?"
He froze at the calm in her face.
Sera (quiet, flat): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
She eased the pressure. He nodded and backed up the steps. No shout. No stain. The river kept its voice.
Sera moved off the stairs and into the temple kitchen lane. The dawn cart waited in the shadow of the arch: empty crates, a tarred cover, a stitched corner of linen—the quiet sign. The carter lifted two fingers.
Carter (low): "Two knocks if stopped. Stand by the drain spout."
Sera (nodded): "If asked, bruised fruit from the south market."
She slid the plain docket across to him. Market ink. Clean circle. Not temple‑black gloss. He tucked it into the slot under the bench.
The lane held its breath. Lamps burned low. Steam from the flue rose and faded. She watched the door swing. Three minutes. Two baskets in. One out. The sleepy porter signed fast without reading. The lazy guard leaned on his post and looked only at the wax circle. Knife‑notch. Wave through.
Sera checked the rest, short and clean:
Tap words with Lyscia: wait / move / split.
Abort sign: double‑cough.
Split sign: one sharp tap on wood.
Thin window: two dozen heartbeats after the bell change.
Safehouse: rope walk door with a blue sash.
A small bell turned somewhere far in the quarter. The ward thread rose in the stone like a drawn string. It would hold, then ease. She breathed with it.
She touched the wall with her palm. Cold. Steady. No fear. Only steps.
Sera (to herself): "In and out. No corpses. No noise."
She pictured the faces she was doing this for—Toren's quick hands, Mira's neat ledger, Lyscia in the dark cell, back straight, breath even, mind sharp. Rivalry did not break trust.
Sera (under breath): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
She went back to the river stairs and knelt by the grate once more. The wedge held. The water stayed low. The path would open when the bells crossed.
Names would pass. Paper would open a door. And one woman would walk free.
05:15 a.m. - At Temple Kitchen Door
Dawn was not here yet. Mist lay on the stones. The lane was quiet under the low arch. Sera stood in the shadow of a buttress. Cloak close. Hands steady.
The first hand‑off came on the minute. The sleepy porter pushed the door with his shoulder and reached for a basket. His apron was white with flour and steam.
Porter (short): "Slip?"
Sera watched him sign fast in brown wax. He did not read the line.
Porter (short): "Under the shelf. Mind the step."
The dawn cart rolled forward. The carter kept his eyes down. Sera slid the plain docket into his hand. Market ink. Clean circle. Not temple‑black gloss.
Lazy Guard (flat): "Stamp?"
Carter (steady): "Clean circle."
The guard nicked the edge with his knife and waved them to the drain spout. He did not read the words. He did not look twice.
Sera marked the rhythm on her sleeve‑slate with a bone stylus. Short lines. Clear mind.
Sleeve‑slate:
Door swings every three minutes.
Two baskets in, one basket out, then waste to the runnel.
Porter signs quick. He does not read.
Lazy guard looks at the circle only. Knife‑notch, then wave through.
A small bell turned far away. Sera set two fingers to the wall. The ward hum rose in the stone like a tight string.
She breathed with it. Slow. Even.
The cross‑bell change came. The hum held hard for a breath, then thinned.
Sera (to herself): "One… two… three… twenty‑four."
The thin window was there. The same as before. Long enough to pass a door. Long enough to step off a bad path.
The carter lifted the stitched corner of linen—just a flash. Their quiet sign.
Carter (low): "Two knocks if stopped. Stand by the drain spout."
Sera (nodded): "If asked—bruised fruit from the south market."
He tapped the rim twice. Practice only. No noise.
A temple acolyte came with incense and cloth. He looked tired. His eyes touched the blue‑grey stick of temple wax on his own tray, then slid past Sera's market circle in the poor light. No question.
A shadow peeled from the lane mouth. A city peeler with hungry eyes drifted close to Sera's belt cord. Fingers quick for the docket slot.
Sera turned with his reach. She took his wrist and walked his hand into the doorpost until the joint spoke.
He hissed.
Sera set her thumb under the hinge of his jaw—light, sure. His breath caught.
Sera (low): "What?"
He saw only calm. He stepped back.
Sera (flat, quiet): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
He chose to live and faded into the mist. No shout. No stain.
The bell's after‑voice ran through the stone. The hum eased again—Magister Halvian's habit. Long hold between the bells. A breath of slack after.
Sera wrote one line more on the slate:
Thin window: two dozen heartbeats after the bell change (confirmed).
She checked her signals 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 porch, cart rests under the awning.
She set her palm to the wall. Cold. Steady. No fear. Only steps.
Sera (to herself): "In and out. No corpses. No noise."
She looked to the arch where the lane opened to the inner street. Greywatch's shadow waited beyond the roofs. The tap exchange would set the clock: wait / move / split.
Sera (under breath): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
She left the cart at the drain spout and slid into the side passage. The city breathed around her—bells, doors, soft feet on wet stone. The window held. The wall would open. And when it did, she would be there.
05:45 a.m. - At Greywatch Bastion Cells
Cold stone. Damp air. Torches hissed in iron brackets. Shadows moved like slow knives across the floor.
Sera stood in the bend of the passage, hidden by a jut of stone. The ward's hum was low here—under the crackle of flame. She touched the vent slit with two fingers and steadied her breath.
She tapped. Short. Precise. The shared code.
Tap—tap.
Tap—tap—tap.
Tap—tap.
"Wait. Move. Split."
Silence. Then a clean reply from inside the cell. Small. Exact. Like steel on steel.
Tap.
Tap—tap.
Tap—tap—tap.
"Heard. Ready. Count."
Sera listened. A guard came up the corridor—the older one. Slow boots. Gravel breath. A small cough like a dry hinge. A guard‑lantern swung at his hip and made the light jump.
He reached the narrow point. Sera slid out of shadow. One hand covered his mouth. The other hand drove a slim rondel up under the ear. The blade was made for mail gaps. It went in clean. No cry. Only a soft grunt.
She lowered him to the floor. She pulled the body behind a buttress where the soot was thick. She wiped the blade once on his cloak hem. No clatter. No scrape.
Sera (low): "No blades… unless forced."
She took the key ring from his belt—six brass, one iron. Greasy. Old. She wrapped it in a kerchief so it would not chime. She slipped a small door‑wrench up her sleeve. She turned the guard‑lantern to a coal's glow and tucked it by the wall.
Back at the vent, she tapped the count in pairs. Each beat spaced like breath.
Tap—tap. One.
Tap—tap. Two.
Tap—tap. Three.
From inside, Lyscia stood ready. Back straight. Chain gathered quiet. No wasted motion. Rivalry did not break trust. Sera knew she would move clean.
Sera tapped the bell mark—the moment of the cross and the thin window after.
Tap—tap—tap—tap. Hold.
A younger guard's step whispered at the far turn—light, uncertain, scabbard dragging a little. Sera faded to shadow and let him pass the bend. As he drew level, his hand reached to lift the fallen lantern.
He started to turn.
Sera's fingers caught his wrist and walked it into the doorframe until the joint spoke. He sucked air to shout. Her thumb pressed the hinge of his jaw—gentle and exact. His breath broke. She set him down easy against the stone and held him there until his eyes rolled dull. Not dead. Quiet.
Sera (low): "What?"
His eyes found only calm and went soft. She eased him onto his side. No stain. No noise.
She moved to the side sally gate—iron‑bound oak, old but kept. She tested keys by touch, the ring still wrapped.
- First brass: wrong bite.
- Second brass: catches a ward pin. Not this one.
- Iron key: turned smooth.
The hinge creaked a hair. Sera rubbed a thumb of oil along the knuckle. It quieted. She left the gate on the catch by a finger‑width and blackened the hinge with soot from the bracket.
She returned to the vent and laid two knuckles to the slit. A final, quiet beat.
Tap.
Inside, Lyscia rolled her wrists once to wake the blood. She angled her body toward the door. Feet set. Chain slack in her hands.
The ward began to rise—thin at first, then tight like a string pulled true. Bells were near.
Sera matched her breath to the hum. She checked the steps in her head. Simple. Clean.
- Gate open on the catch.
- Keys wrapped, no chime.
- Older guard gone. Younger guard sleeping.
- Thin window: two dozen heartbeats after the bell.
Sera (under breath): "In and out. No corpses. No noise."
She looked once at the shadow where the older guard lay. A single blade cost. It kept the window alive.
Sera (low): "Rescue window first."
The bells crossed. The hum held tight, then thinned, just as she had counted in the lanes.
Sera moved.
A lock lifted. A bolt slid. Torches hissed.
In the cell, Lyscia stepped forward on the breath they had agreed—no hesitation, no scrape, eyes steady.
The move had begun.
05:50 a.m. - At Annex Corridor / Kitchen Lane
Stone sweated with cold. Torch smoke hung low. The ward's hum pressed in the walls like a tight string.
Sera eased the sally gate a finger‑width, then slipped through. She held it for Lyscia.
No words. No scrape.
They moved like drill—Lyscia half a pace behind, chain gathered quiet in her hands. At the corner, a shallow crate waited where Sera had set it the night before. Linen lay thick on top, neat and clean.
Sera tapped the lid once. Lyscia stepped in and folded down smooth. Sera covered her with linen, set the lid, and tied one looped cord across the slats. Fast to undo.
Sera (low): "Breath slow. No sound."
Lyscia (even): "Seen."
Sera slid the crate to the inner door and gave a light knock. The dawn cart rolled into view under the arch—empty crates, tarred cover, stitched corner of linen showing the quiet sign.
Carter (under breath): "Two knocks if stopped. Stand by the drain spout."
Sera (nodded): "If asked—bruised fruit from the south market."
They lifted together. The crate settled in the cart's middle stack. Linen bales went on top. Sera slid the plain docket up to the carter's hand—market ink, clean circle, no temple gloss.
They moved.
Wheels whispered over worn stone. The carter hugged the inner wall like a man who had walked this lane all his life. Sera walked at the cart's shoulder. Head low. Hands still.
At the post, the lazy guard raised his head with a yawn.
Lazy Guard (flat): "Stamp?"
Carter (steady): "Clean circle."
The guard nicked the docket's edge with his knife. He waved them through. He did not read the line.
Halfway down the lane, a priest turned the corner with a bowl and a stick of blue‑grey wax. He looked tired. His eyes touched the docket, then slid away. Poor light hid the ink shade. He passed.
If he had stopped them—
- Sera would cough twice (abort).
- Draw him to the annex porch with a question.
- Let the cart rest under the awning.
- Reset the moment.
No need tonight. The priest kept walking. Steam from the flue rose and faded.
A shadow peeled from the arch mouth. A city peeler drifted close to Sera's belt cord. Fingers quick for the docket slot.
Sera turned with his reach. She caught his wrist and walked it to the post until the joint spoke.
He hissed.
Sera set her thumb under the hinge of his jaw—light, exact. His breath caught.
Sera (low): "What?"
His eyes found only calm. He stepped back and chose to live.
Sera (flat, quiet): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
He faded into the mist. No shout. No stain.
They reached the drain spout. Water trickled into the runnel. The carter eased the cart into the lee of the wall and tilted it a hair, like a man taking a short rest.
Carter (low): "Two minutes to bell."
Sera set her palm on the stone. The hum held hard. Soon it would thin. She checked the pieces fast in her head:
- Crate tied. Linen smooth.
- Docket clean. Circle neat. Market ink.
- Culvert wedge set. Low tide still holding.
- Signals: double‑cough = abort, one tap on wood = split to drain path.
She looked once through the lane mouth. Dawnspire breathed in the distance—enemy cities pressing at the borders, but this street still small and blind. That was enough.
Sera (to herself): "In and out. No corpses. No noise."
The bell far off drew breath. The carter's hands stayed steady on the cart's lip. The stitched corner of linen showed once, then slipped back into shadow.
They waited for the thin window.
06:05 a.m. - At River Stairs / Culvert
The bell's echo faded. The ward held tight, then thinned—just as Sera had counted. Two dozen breaths. That was the window.
At the drain spout, the cart settled in the lee of the wall. Water dripped into the runnel. Steam rose from the kitchen flue and vanished into the morning air.
Sera slid the crate down beside the spout, linen still neat on top. Her fingers found the culvert seam. The top pin—the new one—waited where she had wedged it days ago.
Slow pressure. One breath.
The pin eased a finger‑width.
Sera (under breath): "Good."
She slid the oiled wedge deeper. The grate lifted an inch, then two. Enough for a person. Not for the crate.
Sera loosened the lid, lifted the linen. Lyscia's eyes met hers. Steady. No fear.
Sera tapped once on the slat—split.
Carter (low): "Two knocks if stopped. Stand by the drain spout."
Sera (nodded): "If asked—bruised fruit from the south market."
He lifted the cart cover to block the light on the street. Sera placed a small stone under the edge of the grate to keep it open. Cold water touched her knuckles.
Sera (low): "On your elbows. Straight through. Keep left."
Lyscia slid from the crate like a shadow. Hands first. Chain tucked under so it would not ring. Sera went after, one palm on iron, one on stone.
Above, the lazy guard yawned. The carter shifted a crate and coughed once, bored and harmless. No alarm.
They crawled three body‑lengths. Moss slicked the stones. The culvert ran low but passable. The city's weight pressed above them—the slow beat of Dawnspire's morning.
A pale light showed ahead. The river spoke, soft and steady. Reeds moved in a thin breeze.
Sera eased the grate stone free and let it drop into water, not onto rock. No sound.
Sera (quiet): "Left along the silt. Footprints in the water, not on the mud."
They slipped under the quay where the shadow held. A skiff creaked upstream. Gulls cried over the market like thin knives in the air.
Sera checked the river level—still low. The wedge had held. If it had not, they would have taken the inner drain: two turns, then up through a grate into the warehouse yard with a blue sash. Not needed today.
At the quay steps, black teeth rose from the waterline. Sera touched the stone. No fresh chalk. No ash cone. Clear.
Sera (low): "Up and right. Then the rope walk."
Lyscia nodded once. They climbed, bodies close to the wall. Sera kept the cut chain in her hand until they reached the top. She coiled it fast and tucked it into a linen bag.
A porter crossed the far end of the quay with a barrel sling. He did not look their way. Sera waited one breath, then moved them through the gap.
A city peeler stepped from a fish stall, eyes sticky with sleep. His gaze dragged across Sera's belt cord.
He reached.
Sera turned with his reach and walked his wrist into the stair post until the joint spoke. His breath hitched. Her thumb pressed the hinge of his jaw—gentle, exact. Control.
Sera (low): "What?"
His eyes found only calm. He chose to live. She eased him into a seated slouch like a man sick from the river stench.
Sera (flat, quiet): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
He stayed down. No shout. No stain.
They took the narrow lane that cut to the old rope walk. Three corners on, a low row of warehouses. A borrowed blue sash marked the right eave.
Sera checked the mouth of the lane—one cat, one porter, no eyes. She breathed once, slow and steady.
Sera (to herself): "In and out. No corpses. No noise."
Lyscia's maxim beat in her chest: We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act.
Sera (under breath): "Uh huh."
They moved along the wall's shadow and crossed to the blue sash. The door waited. The city's hum settled back into stone behind them. Enemy cities pressed the borders, but this street stayed small and blind.
They slipped inside.
06:30 a.m. - Across the Old Rope Walk
The blue sash marked the door. Sera tapped once, then pushed in. The room was small—bare boards, a low table, a basin, two folded bundles. No one waited.
Lyscia stepped inside and stopped. She drew one slow breath of free air. No words.
Sera shut the door and dropped the linen bag. She checked the shutters, the floor, the inside latch. Clean.
Sera (low): "Two minutes. Then we move."
She set the saw on the table—a thin‑tooth blade with a short grip. Lyscia sat, set her wrist on the edge, and held still. Sera worked the last cuff pin fast and quiet. The pin fell into her palm. She wrapped it in linen and pocketed it.
Sera (low): "Water."
Lyscia dipped her hands. She rubbed off iron dust and old grime. No speech. No wince. Only work.
Sera opened the first bundle: plain porter grey—tunic, skirt wrap, head‑cloth, soft shoes. She cut the chain short, coiled the rest into the linen bag, and tied it tight.
Lyscia changed. She bound her hair. She pulled the head‑cloth low. She looked like any worker moving crates at first light.
Sera opened the second bundle: cloak, ledger wrap, and a reed pen case. She placed a small basket in Lyscia's hands and set a folded cloth over the top.
Sera (low): "Carry. Elbow loose. If asked—"
Lyscia (even): "I fetch lists. Annex North. Room three."
Sera nodded once. She fed two papers into a lidded clay dish and lit them. No flame showed beyond the rim. Only a curl of smoke. She crushed the ash with a spoon and tipped it into the basin. It turned the water grey. She stirred and poured it down a floor crack. Nothing left.
She wiped the table, the latch, and the sill with a damp rag. She rubbed away a faint chalk dot she had set on the way in. Wood went clean under her thumb.
Sera (to herself): "No trail."
A soft shoe scuffed outside the door. Weight paused. The latch tested once.
Sera moved without sound. She slipped to the jamb. When the latch clicked again, she drew the door a finger and let the intruder's hand come through the gap.
Her fingers caught his wrist. She walked it down into the jamb until the joint spoke. He hissed and dragged a knife halfway free.
Sera's thumb pressed the hinge of his jaw—gentle, exact. Breath broke. Body softened.
Sera (low): "What?"
His eyes found only calm. He froze.
Sera (flat, quiet): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
She eased him back into the passage and let the door breathe shut. No shout. No stain. She slipped the bolt.
Lyscia watched without comment. Respect, not praise. Rivalry did not break trust.
Sera tied the iron key under the table in a fixed notch. She slid the saw into a wall gap and pushed a splinter to hold it. She tucked the kerchief‑wrapped guard keys into her belt. The linen bag swallowed the cut chain.
Sera (low): "Routes."
She drew fast lines in dust on the floor, then brushed them out.
Sera (low): "You take the yard cut to the dye canal. Second door to the ledger porch. Two turns. No eyes. If stopped—"
Lyscia (even): "I am late for lists."
Sera (short): "Seen."
Sera lifted the latch. The alley beyond was quiet—one porter and a cat. The borrowed blue sash on the eave fluttered once in the morning wind.
Sera (low): "Left, then right. If the ward grows early, wait under the awning and trade places with the cart lane."
Lyscia (short): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
Sera's mouth tilted, almost a smile.
Sera (under breath): "Uh huh."
They stepped out. Cloaks close. Baskets plain. No rush. No noise.
Two corners on, a city peeler drifted near, eyes on Sera's belt cord. His fingers reached.
Sera turned with his reach. She walked his wrist into a beam until the joint spoke. Her thumb touched the jaw hinge. Breath broke. Control.
Sera (low): "What?"
He saw her calm and chose to live. She eased him into a seated slouch like a man sick from smoke. No alarm.
They split at the dye canal. Lyscia took the yard cut and vanished into porter traffic, shoulders rounded, pace unremarkable. Sera moved the other way, toward the market lanes, to blur any tail and scatter any story.
On the way, she touched posts and stone lips, wiping her tells, breaking two hair‑thin splinters she had left on the night run. No trail. She handed a lantern boy a coin without looking.
Sera (mild): "Oil the inner arch. No spills."
The boy nodded and ran.
At a narrow cross‑street, Sera stopped just inside a shadow and watched the flow. Dawnspire breathed like a tired beast. The ward thread in the stone was steady again. The window had closed behind them.
Sera (to herself): "Names pass. Paper opens doors."
She turned down a lane where shop signs hung low. A new board stood on a gate ahead, clean letters, neat nails. Voices sounded inside: ledgers, plans, steady hands.
Sera paused at the corner. She checked shadow and reflection. Clear.
She did not lift her hood.
A young man at the far door spoke about wages and rails. He did not look up. He did not see her.
The figure in the cloak paused at the corner, then walked away toward the market, unseen and unremarked.