Mama and I eat a quiet breakfast together the following morning, the faint sound of voices carrying to us from somewhere below. Bren is no doubt receiving the intelligence he requested about the mages’ complex—or perhaps he’s navigating the political void left behind by Bardok’s death. Regardless, he doesn’t send for us.
Once we finish, I make my final preparations. I dress in the same clothes I wore yesterday to my audience with Alyrra, though I take the time to unpick the seam of the pocket first. I strap my bone knife to my thigh, tuck the lockpick set Bren has provided for me into the top of my boot, and make sure the ends of my story sash are hidden beneath my tunic.
My fingers linger a moment on the sewn wards, but I can’t tell if they’re any more frayed than before. I’ll have to l
