"We do not count grains of wheat with farmers who know their own fields. We came because your neighbor has been sowing salt in the night. He is not a neighbor you invited."
Mariel's hands folded at her waist. "When one ancient stirs," she said softly, "the others raise their heads to see whether they should leave their burrows. That cannot be allowed."
The director did not pretend he did not know. "Valakar," he said. The name felt like stone in his mouth. Heavy, simple, not to be argued with.
"And the one he smiles at from the corner," Taaros added, a faint narrowing of his eyes the only sign of distaste.
"Drosirael. Blade wrapped in shadow. He will cut for the pleasure of seeing the slice, not because the cut is needed."
"Your building has good fences," Mariel said. "Your city has good lights. Your maps are better than most.
But his roots do not care about lights, and his cults do not climb fences. They grow under them."
