A biting frost coated the cobblestones of the lower bazaar in a sheen of brittle diamond dust.
Through the white fog of dawn, Elara walked with swift, purposeful strides down the market lane. She wore a tailored wool mantle the deep shade of crushed pine needles, fastened securely over her chest with a plain bone clasp. Beneath it, her charcoal riding trousers were tucked into supple, calf-high doe-skin boots that crunched quietly over the frozen gravel. Her breath curled into pale ribbons in the freezing air, her dark hair gathered into a neat, practical braid that rested against her spine. In her right hand, she carried an empty split-willow basket, while in her left clutched a folded roll of parchment listing the urgent clinical requisitions for the week.
Beside her, young Milo scurri
