The driver walked toward the privy behind the carriage court. His gait was stiff from the disguise, the boots too tight around his ankles. Once out of sight, he exhaled and rolled his shoulders.

A shimmer tugged the air beside him. Quenya appeared, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Both spoke at once.

"What?"

"What?"

They stared a second longer before she squinted. "You're looking... different."

Vencian wiped a thumb under his jaw. "You're the one who signaled. Said he was worth a closer look."

"So you knocked him out and stole his face?"

"Practical decision."

She circled him, curious. "Where's the real driver?"

Vencian lifted his right hand. The small tattoo of teeth glimmered faintly on his palm.

Quenya blinked. "You actually used that? We never tested it on a living human."

"Worked fine."

"That's—" she caught herself. "Then it can store people too."

"Maybe. Feels too easy though." His brow furrowed. "There's always a catch."

She nodded once. "We'll test later. For now, listen."

Vencian leaned against the wall. "What did you get from the meeting?"

"Your Lady Valemont and the man talked about timing. Something called the 'day of ancestors.' He gave her a small box, told her it'll open on that day. Then mentioned the guy named Jerenir. Your name was mentioned."

Vencian's jaw tightened. "So Gundal's tied to them."

"Seems like it. Maybe he's the man Sagiel talked about."

He thought for a moment. "Then we follow him. See who he meets, where he reports. Might tell us what they're building toward."

Quenya tilted her head. "You do realize this is a bad idea?"

"I do."

He bit down on the rest. Larion's promised device came to mind—the small artifact meant to let Vencian signal him during emergencies. It still hadn't arrived. One more anchor he could have used. One more way this plan could feel less thin.

Yet information weighed heavier than caution today.

He turned toward the carriage. "Still doing it."

They returned before Gundal's patience wore thin. The man stood with his arms crossed. "You take long enough."

"Blame the servant's water," Vencian said evenly, climbing onto the seat.

Gundal muttered, unimpressed. "To Market Square. Quickly."

Vencian took the reins. The horses jerked forward. His hands moved too rigidly, pulling when he should have eased. The carriage bumped hard over the stones.

"Smooth," Quenya murmured near his ear.

He kept his eyes ahead. "Be quiet."

Market Square unfolded in rows of stalls and benches. Gundal leaned out the window once, scanning the crowd, then gestured toward a narrower lane. "That way."

Vencian steered them through until Gundal tapped the side. "Stop here."

The carriage halted before a plain building with shuttered windows. Apartments, by the look of it. Gundal stepped out, straightened his coat, and walked toward a stairwell without a word.

Vencian climbed down, adjusting his gloves. Quenya appeared again, smirking. "Careful. If anyone catches you following, the next generation will call you Vencian the Voyeur."

"Quiet," he hissed.

She chuckled, fading from sight.

The second floor landing was crowded, voices rising from every direction. The building matched a hundred others nearby—square rooms, same cracked plaster, the same faint smell of boiled grain drifting from open doors.

Gundal slipped into one of the apartments without looking back.

Vencian waited by the stair rail, heart beating steady, before easing along the corridor. He stopped near a grimy window. From there he could see faint movement through thin curtains, but only outlines. He crouched, shifting until he found a crack wide enough to catch a few words.

The voices inside were low. A chair scraped. Gundal's tone came first—measured, calm. Another voice answered, deeper, impatient.

"…trust them?" the man said.

Vencian frowned. Trust who? He pressed closer, trying to follow the rhythm of their talk. Snatches reached him between the breaks of street noise—mentions of a delivery, a delay, something about "their side watching too closely."

He risked a glance above the window.

Gundal sat near the table, back straight, the lamplight glinting on his silver clasp. Opposite him sat a man with short hair and a pale scar across his cheek. Vencian's pulse caught. He knew that face. Jerenir.

He ducked fast. His shoulder brushed the wall, wood creaking faintly. Inside, the talk paused. Then resumed, quieter than before.

It was harder now to make sense of anything. Vencian caught fragments—"relic from Sunsleep era," "should be enough," "no need to involve others." He pieced the rest by guesswork. Something was being traded, something ancient.

A chair shifted again. Someone muttered, "using it… hard… but farther with it now."

Vencian leaned in, straining. The sound blurred under a burst of laughter from downstairs. He clenched his jaw, waiting for quiet to return.

Then a new voice spoke. Different, colder.

"It doesn't matter, what matters is masters plan shouldn't be jeopardized again," the newcomer said.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He hadn't heard the door open. Whoever it was, they moved with authority; the others fell silent before answering.

Vencian wanted to peek again, but the new arrival stopped mid-sentence. The silence stretched. A prickle of warning ran through him.

"Gundal," the voice said at last. "How did you come here?"

Vencian froze.

Then, sharper: "You let a rat sneak in."

He didn't wait to think. He pushed back from the window, ducked low, and rolled away from the wall.

A sword blade burst through the wood where his chest had been. Splinters flew across the corridor.

He ran.

Down the stairs, past startled tenants, out into the square. The crowd thickened ahead—peddlers shouting, carts rolling, smoke from frying oil curling in the air. He plunged into it, stripping off the driver's coat as he moved. His illusion shimmered; in the blink of a breath, his face shifted.

He snatched a cap from a hawker's stand, tossing a few coins behind him without stopping. The cap settled low over his brow. He merged with the flow of bodies, forcing himself to breathe evenly.

They would be looking for him already.

He cut through the crowd, coat half unbuttoned, eyes searching for an exit. The square was too open. Too many faces. He saw two men at the fringe, pausing each time he slowed. They had his outline, not his face.

A carriage door opened nearby. A woman stepped down—too prim in her posture for the square, clothes pressed clean, hair tucked beneath a tilted hat far too fine for the dust.

His angle shifted enough to catch her features beneath the brim, a familiar line around the eyes surfacing beneath the careful presentation.

He hesitated, pulse steady but quick. The men's heads turned. He moved before thought could form.

"Excuse me," he said, low and even.

She started as he reached her, his hand finding her wrist. To anyone watching, it looked like a private quarrel. His other arm shifted behind her shoulder, changing his frame, forcing their silhouettes to blend.

Her breath caught. "What are you—"

He leaned close. "Bear with me."

Recognition flickered in her eyes. He turned his face just enough for her to see him. Her mouth parted in shock, hand rising, then freezing midair.

He guided her backward into a side alley naturally. Sunlight faded, replaced by the muted smell of stone and spice.

He kept his focus on the noise outside—the shifting carts, the boots against stone, the brief calls of merchants. They stayed close, unmoving, until the rhythm of pursuit thinned to ordinary street sounds again.

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