The night in the motel passed with restless silence. No one truly slept—only drifted, uneasy, with dreams that pressed too close to the truth. By the time the first hollow bell of the city tolled, they gathered again, heavier-eyed but sharper in their resolve.
Fen was already at the table, a rough scrap of parchment spread before him. He had sketched the crude shape of the city’s districts—lines for alleys, circles for markets, a jagged mark for the north wall. The ink was smudged where his hand had pressed too hard.
“We don’t have luxury,” he said flatly, his voice carrying the weight of command. “Kravok gave us enough to know the Veyrith are no rumor. If we want herbs to weaken the tower guards, they’re the only path. That means finding them, cornering them, and learning what they want
