"Someone careless," Mikhailis murmured. "That's worse than an enemy—it means they thought they were safe."
He unfastened his coat briefly, pulling out the brass-and-glass macro lens. The lens unfolded with a smooth click, catching a sliver of gray light. He brushed the stick that lay discarded nearby, its end caked with black tar. The surface crackled under his finger. Through the lens, the texture came alive—tiny grains of soot, a shimmer of grit. River sand. Local. He pinched some between his fingers, rolling it thoughtfully. The faint scent of kiln soot lingered. "Local mix," he murmured. "Not imported. Someone's building near the water."
"You think it's connected?" Lira asked softly.
"Everything that moves in shadow connects somewhere." His tone was distant, not entirely for her. Everything does, sooner or later.
