The Myrindar spy came at the hour when day surrenders its last light and the bells of evening prayer tremble upon the air. She passed through the palace courts as though she had been woven from the very dusk—slipping between pillars and beneath archways with such quiet assurance that even the watchful torches seemed not to mark her passage.
Emery stood within the lower gardens, among the Velanthri who had survived flame and iron. The late sun burnished the leaves to bronze. Lira was teaching her an ancient harvest hymn, one sung in the old tongue of Veel, a melody once carried over golden fields before war turned them to ash. Emery's fingers were deft with the herbs she braided, though her voice faltered on certain notes—still unaccustomed to singing without fear.
A small woman clad in grey appeared at her elbow as if conjured by the hymn itself.
"You have tidings?" Lira asked, shifting at once into Veel, her posture sharpening.
