By the time dusk draped itself over the capital like a blood-soaked shawl, the manor gates had already opened.
Three girls stood outside in silk too thin for the wind, their faces veiled, their backs straight. The guards barely looked at them. They were used to this—fresh arrivals from the Flower House, broken pretties with painted lips and hollow eyes. They didn't notice the way one girl scanned the estate with purpose, or how her veil fluttered just long enough to reveal the faintest scar above her collarbone.
I kept my eyes low as we were led inside, but I counted every corner. Seven guards on rotation. Two dogs leashed to the main column. A pair of women in red sashes waiting by the stairs—his senior favorites, judging by their tired stares and the wine stains on their sleeves.
