I leave before anyone notices the light change. Dawn arrives slowly this time, the sky paling in careful layers rather than breaking open all at once, and I move through the packhouse with the practiced quiet of someone who knows exactly which floorboards will betray her weight. No alarms sound. No voices follow me. The corridors feel hollow at this hour, stripped of their daytime scrutiny, and for the first time in days, the silence does not feel like something being measured.
The air outside is cold enough to sting, sharp and clean in a way that clears my head even as it tightens my chest, and I breathe it in deeply as I start toward the border path, boots crunching softly against gravel and frost. I do not bring a cloak. I do not bring a weapon. This is not a patrol or a challenge or a
