SHADOWWOVEN

The first light of dawn hadn't yet climbed the rooftops of Vira when the wooden door banged against its frame.

Rina knelt behind the counter, grinding aconite root into a fine, dark powder. The knocking came in an impatient rhythm—too urgent for the townsfolk's polite taps. She didn't look up, just drove the pestle harder into the mortar.

"Come in."

The door flew open, and Mira stumbled in, carrying the damp chill of early dew. Mud stained her hem, and a fresh gash ran along her left index finger, beads of blood dripping down her knuckles.

Rina set the pestle down, retrieved a length of clean linen from beneath the counter, and tore off a strip. "Over the wall again?"

"The messenger's here." Mira ignored the jab, her voice low as she glanced back at the street.

Rina took her hand, wrapping the wound with practiced speed. Her fingers brushed Mira's cold skin—she was trembling. Not from pain. From nerves.

"Where?"

"East post station. An old beggar, missing half his left ear." Mira pulled a crumpled note from her bodice and pressed it into Rina's palm. The edges were blackened, as if singed by fire.

Rina unfolded it. A single line: "Ashes come. Seeds must move."

She stared at the words for three seconds, then folded the note and tucked it into the hidden pocket of her belt.

"Go ready the horses." She said. "Back door. Now."

Mira nodded, turning to leave. Rina called after her: "Put the earrings on."

Mira touched the plain copper ring in her earlobe—a trinket they'd made years ago, seemingly ordinary but actually a crude resonance chamber. She breathed on it, checking it was still intact, then slipped out.

Rina stood alone in the shop, the air thick with the scent of dried mugwort and fresh herbs. She scanned the room: roots hanging from the walls, rows of clay jars on shelves, a narrow wooden staircase leading to the second floor. This had been her home for three years. Her hiding place.

Hoofbeats sounded below.

Not Mira's horse. Too many, too rhythmic—trained cavalry. Rina moved quickly to the stairs, placing her foot lightly on the first step.

The sound grew closer, then stopped directly in front of the shop.

She climbed to the second floor and peered through the crack in the north window. In the gray light, fifteen knights in black armor sat astride their horses in the street. Their armor bore the mark of ash, their faces hidden behind helmets. The man at the front rode a jet-black stallion. His hair—

Rina's fingers tightened on the windowsill.

It was gray-white. Not the thinning white of old age, but the color of smoke-stained bone, starting from the roots and fading to a dull brown at the tips. He sat straight as a spear, a longsword in hand. Its scabbard was black, inlaid with silver patterns.

A man burst from the bakery next door, a cleaver raised.

"You can't just take people!"

The lead knight dismounted. He landed softly, barely making a sound. Then he raised his sword—

Rina held her breath.

He didn't strike. The pommel of his sword hit the baker's temple with precise force. The man crumpled without a sound.

The knight lowered his sword and said something to his men. His voice was quiet, too soft for Rina to make out the words, but she heard the tone—calm, not cold, but deliberately restrained, like a man holding back something that might explode.

A thin scar ran from the corner of his left eye to his cheekbone, as if a blade had grazed him.

The knights began searching house to house. Their movements were methodical, not the frantic rummaging of common soldiers. They were looking for something specific.

Rina's gaze fell on the badges at their waists. Obsidian brooches, shaped like burning thorns.

Tribunal men.

She touched her left shoulder, where an old scar from three years ago hid beneath her tunic—a tattoo of thorns and flames, her family's crest.

Footsteps sounded below. Someone knocked.

"Open up! Ashen Knights, searching!"

Rina stood at the top of the stairs, calculating. The back door led to an alley where Mira would be waiting with the horses. She could slip out now, and by the time they finished searching the first floor, she'd be miles from Vira.

She didn't move.

She watched the gray-white-haired knight enter the shop. His eyes scanned the shelves and jars, lingering only briefly. Then his gaze settled on the floor behind the counter.

Rina knew what was there. The third floorboard was hollow, hiding her family's ancient texts and things that shouldn't be found.

The knight walked over and knelt. His fingers touched the edge of the board.

Time slowed. Rina's hand found the poison needle at her waist—crafted with Darkfire venom, enough to paralyze a man in seconds. She could leap down the stairs and strike before he lifted the board.

The knight's fingers froze.

He didn't lift it.

He stared at the board for two seconds, then stood and nudged it back into place with his boot, covering the hidden compartment.

"Nothing here." He said to his men.

Then he turned, looking up the stairs.

Rina stood there, needle still in hand. Their eyes met in the shadow between floors.

He saw the needle. She knew he did.

He said nothing. He simply nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if confirming something, then turned and walked out.

Footsteps faded. The clatter of hooves receded down the street.

Rina stood on the stairs, the needle slowly dropping from her fingers.

She'd seen the black veins on his left wrist. Not a tattoo—something deeper, like ink flowing beneath the skin.

He'd let her go.

Why?

Rina descended the stairs and knelt behind the counter. She lifted the board. The texts and vials inside were untouched. She rearranged them and closed the compartment.

Mira's voice came from outside: "They're gone."

Rina opened the back door. Mira stood in the alley with two horses. Her face was pale.

"You didn't leave?" Mira asked.

"Running makes you look guilty." Rina took the reins and mounted.

Mira stared at her, mouth open, then shook her head.

"Go." Rina said. "Meet me at the usual place."

Mira nodded and galloped away.

Rina rode alone out of Vira, the morning sun spilling over the hills. She glanced back at the town one last time, then turned her horse toward the eastern mountains.

She didn't know who that gray-white-haired knight was, but she'd remember his face—and the black veins on his wrist.

Curse marks.

The same as hers.