– A Hand in the Dark
The tavern's smoke curled heavy, carrying the stench of old wine and older secrets. The messenger sat with the scroll still unbroken, its seal glinting faintly in the lantern-light. Every heartbeat was louder than the chatter around him.
Then—soft. Barely audible. A chair scraped against the floor.
He looked up.
The woman from the corner table was gone. In her place, the scent of lavender and steel lingered, faint as an afterthought.
"You shouldn't stay here."
The voice came from behind him. Low. Controlled. Neither threat nor comfort—something sharper, something calculated.
The messenger froze. "Who are you?"
No reply. Only the soft rustle of a cloak brushing past. His pulse surged, his instincts screaming to flee, but before he could move, a hand pressed the scroll back into his grasp. Cold fingers. Firm.
"Not yet," the voice murmured. "The storm has not chosen its center."
And just like that, the presence slipped away, melting into the noise of the tavern. He turned, searching, but there was nothing—no figure, no cloak, no proof that anyone had been there at all.
Only the weight of the scroll in his hands, heavier now, as though the parchment itself had inhaled a secret.
For the first time, the messenger realized the Sovereign was not the only one who ruled with silence.