Sienna stood and stretched slowly, her muscles stiff from hours of reading.
The realization only strengthened her earlier conclusion.
Keeping a low profile was not cowardice.
It was wisdom.
The tallest tree is always the first to be struck by lightning.
She walked to the study window and pushed open the paper shutters.
The frame creaked softly.
Cool air drifted in, carrying with it the smell of earth, weeds, and distant cooking fires.
From the third floor, she could see the square below.
Women sat together weaving weed mats.
Children were not present, but the scene still felt strangely domestic, like the early days of a village taking root.
Their hands moved tirelessly.
Their expressions were peaceful.
Despite the looming threat of the Carrion Swamp and the poverty pressing against them from all sides, they worked with quiet determination.
Sienna felt warmth spread through her chest.
These people had almost nothing. Yet they still found reasons to smile.
