N Y X A R A
The Guild found me through a man wearing Ashmoore silver.
He entered after midnight carrying water, folded linen, and the blank look of a man hiding fear. Kaelor had doubled the guards after the rogue’s warning.
Taren had sealed the lower corridors. Even the Dawn Ring clasp sat behind three locks. None of it stopped him from crossing my threshold.
He wore Ashmoore black, the crescent badge at his throat. I had seen him once near the western stairs, laughing over a cracked sword belt.
Now every step was too measured. One hand gripped the pitcher. The other stayed rigid at his side. Crushed mint and clean wool filled the room, threaded with something metallic.
Blood. Or fear.
“Leave it,” I said.
His gaze darted to my wrist, then the table. Beneath my sleeve, the mark stil
