Cerys hit the margins with a small squad that already understood what she wanted: no neat lines, no drum-beat feet. They moved ugly on purpose—one heel heavy, one toe quick, then a pause that didn't match anyone else's pause. From the road, they looked like a group that couldn't keep time. From up close, they were a net that never rang.
The old aqueduct made ribs against the pale sky. Gulls sat like knots along the stone. Water hissed somewhere far under the street, the sound thin and constant. Cerys swept a glance along the arch tops, then under them. She could smell damp lime, old lily roots, someone's cook smoke drifting from a squatter's brazier. No sharp stink of fear. No quick sweat pressed into dust where someone had been dragged. No scuff in the places people always forget to hide—the inside edge of a step, the low brick under the curve of a gate.
