The sound reached her before the sight. It was the collective roar of a world that had reclaimed its breath.
Through the heavy, velvet-lined walls of the carriage, the market announced itself as a symphony of layered percussion, not just one or two voices, but the dense, textured music of thousands of people existing simultaneously.
It was the specific, chaotic melody of a city that had survived the Long Dark, a vicious trial and civil unrest but had decided, with a stubborn and beautiful ferocity, to be alive.
The carriage groaned to a halt, the wheels settling into the well-worn ruts of the stone square. Eris descended first.
She had chosen her attire with the deliberate precision of a woman who understood the futility of a true disguise.
She knew her own geography too well, the shock of white hair that caught every stray beam of light, the amber eyes that burned like trapped sunlight, the predatory grace of her stride.
These were things she could not hide.
