It started with little, little things.
A sack of grain missing from the stores—blamed on rodents, quickly forgotten. A guard found dead at the bottom of a stairwell, his neck broken. An accident, they said. Drunk, maybe, stumbling in the dark. The Myrindar were not convinced, yet they had no proof, and so the matter was quietly closed.
Emery might have forgotten it as well, had it not been for the woman.
She noticed her first among the Velanthri gathering three days earlier. A face she did not recognize—which was strange, for the Velanthri community was small enough that nearly every soul knew the other. Dark hair drawn neatly back. Eyes that moved too quickly, never resting. Hands that seemed always on edge, as though they longed to flee before the mind had yet decided.
She stood at the edge of the gathering.
Watching.
Always watching.
Emery spoke of it to Mira that night while they sat within the quiet garden.
