Old Bridge’s waystation sat on the last wide ledge before the path became switchbacks and sheer drop. In daylight it looked ordinary. At night the corners of rooms sometimes contained the shadow of a conversation that had not yet happened.
They were not the only guests. A woman in travel-stained mountain gear sat alone at the far table, eating porridge with methodical care. Her hair was cropped short. A pale, spiral-shaped scar—almost identical to Lira’s—marked the back of her left hand. She noticed Lira’s stare and raised the hand in a dry greeting.
“Name’s Ysara. I walked out of the Echo Hold nine days ago. Or possibly tomorrow. The Hold is not careful with sequence. You are the living boundary from the lowland cities. The air has been talking about you.”
Sera’s attention sharpened. K
