Sanctuary closes around L'Sara in a clangor of carts, hawkers, and wet boots. Beneath the town's crowded noise, rumors move faster than coin, carried through alleys smelling of rain, lamp oil, and river mud.
Alleria keeps the manifests beneath her cloak while Deren guides Ilyra through the press. The elderly archivist watches every guild banner and magistrate's seal, her fingers tight around the royal account.
L'Sara T'Lvanni
The seizure order must still be active.
At a posting wall, a fresh notice bears the Empire's red seal and a crude likeness of Ilyra. Beneath it, someone has drawn a tiny crowned serpent in black chalk.
A young woman steps from a spice stall, slight and sharp-faced, with cropped brown hair, a mustard cloak, and ink-stained fingertips. She approaches without looking directly at the notice.
The Spice-Stall Woman
Keep walking, dark elf. The wall has eyes, and one of them just saw your companions.
The Spice-Stall Woman
Nessa, by the way. If you want those papers heard before the Empire's men arrive, follow me into the market's back throat.