The grain came in through the west culvert at dusk.
Liora had timed it between patrol rotations — three minutes after the collectors cleared the lower quay, seven before the palace guard crossed toward the iron bridge. She knew the rhythm of Dillaclor the way other people knew prayer.
"Not the main road," she murmured as Roald shifted the first crate onto his shoulder. "They'll expect generosity to be visible. Take Narrowhook. Widow Hareth's cellar first. Then split the rest between the tannery and the rope loft."
Roald grinned. "You say that like I was going to parade through the square with a banner."
"You enjoy attention."
"I enjoy food not being confiscated."
She pressed the charcoal-marked scrap into his palm. "And if you see anything strange, you leave. Supplies matter. You matter more."
He held her gaze for half a second longer than usual.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "All right."
Then he disappeared into the dim, two dockhands trailing with the second crate.
They had almost cleared the square when Roald heard it.
His voice.
Not the warmth — that was wrong — but the rhythm close enough to make him slow.
"…if the authorities choose to interpret one warehouse fire as coincidence," the voice was saying near the well, even and deliberate, "perhaps the next should remove all ambiguity."
No laughter this time.
Only stillness.
Liora did not look at the speaker. She scanned the edges. Two collectors near the cooper's stall. A palace guard beneath the arch. Not intervening.
Observing.
"They have shifted to narrative," she murmured.
"They've shifted to me."
"Yes."
He watched a moment longer as the false version of himself continued.
"We must not be timid," the boy said. "Power yields only when it is made uncomfortable."
The phrasing sat too cleanly in the air.
Roald rarely sounded like a pamphlet.
"Finish the west route," Liora said. "We do not engage unless it becomes necessary."
He hesitated.
Then adjusted the crate and turned down Narrowhook.
The city would eat tonight.
That mattered more than whoever had borrowed his shape.
The following afternoon, the square felt thinner.
Watchful.
He stood near the well again.
Same coat. Same hair.
But he held himself differently — chin lifted slightly higher, hands clasped behind his back between gestures.
"…fear," he was saying, voice measured, "is a dialect authority understands fluently. If they insist on employing it, we should ensure we are equally proficient."
A few murmurs. Uncertain.
Roald would have said something like:
If they want to scare us, we can scare them back.
This sounded… constructed.
The innkeeper stepped from her doorway, drying her hands on her apron.
"Roald."
He turned.
A flicker — barely there — of calculation before the smile.
"Good afternoon, ma'am."
The word landed stiffly.
"Ma'am?" she repeated, almost curious.
"Respect," he replied evenly, "is a foundation of unity."
Someone near the well shifted.
"You still owe me for that broken teacup," she said warmly.
A pause.
His brow tightened just slightly.
"I am afraid you are mistaken."
"The blue one. You tried to carry three."
"I do not recall such an event."
A dockhand frowned.
The boy inclined his head. "If I have caused you inconvenience, I apologize."
Too clean.
Too distant.
Her smile did not move.
"That's unfortunate."
She stepped back.
He resumed speaking after only a breath's delay.
"As I was saying, restraint has limits. We must demonstrate consequence."
But the current had shifted.
Something subtle.
Something off.
The square did not respond the same way.
That evening, redistribution moved like quiet tidewater through Dillaclor.
Grain into cellars.
Oil beneath floorboards.
Dried fish tucked behind stacked rope.
Liora directed with precision.
"Two here. One there. No more than they can conceal."
Roald worked between doorways, steady and unceremonious.
When a porter stumbled, he caught the sack before it split.
"Easy," he muttered. "If you waste it, she'll make you scrub pans for a month."
They passed the square on their way toward the river.
The innkeeper saw him first.
"You still owe me for that teacup."
He didn't break stride.
"Two cups," he corrected. "And the table lunged at me first. I maintain that."
Soft laughter.
Unforced.
He shifted the sack on his shoulder and glanced toward her doorway.
"Is Sir Christoph behaving, or has he resumed his campaign against the flour?"
"He knocked it over this morning."
Roald stopped walking just long enough to press a hand dramatically to his chest. "I trusted him."
More laughter now.
He shook his head. "Absolute power. Corrupts absolutely."
He was already turning away when he added, almost absently, "Tell him I expect better."
And then he was gone again beside Liora, arguing quietly about whether the rope loft would need extra oil next week.
The square remained still for a moment.
The fishmonger leaned toward the innkeeper.
"The other one didn't know," she said quietly.
"No."
"He called you 'ma'am.'"
A small nod.
"And he didn't ask about the cat."
The innkeeper's gaze drifted toward the alley where the impersonator had vanished the day before.
"He always asks about Sir Christoph."
Silence settled between them.
Not surprise.
Not outrage.
Just certainty.
The dockhand folded his arms. "Then who was that?"
"I don't know," the innkeeper said.
Her eyes moved slowly across the square — the well, the stalls, the archway.
"But whoever it is," she added, "they think we do not notice the small things."
The next time someone mentioned threats near the well, the response came quicker.
"What did he say exactly?"
Now the phrasing mattered.
Now the tone mattered.
The story did not travel as cleanly.
It slowed.
Examined.
Turned in steady hands before being passed along.
And somewhere beyond the square, the architect of the imitation would begin to encounter an unexpected obstacle:
Dillaclor knew the difference between a voice
and a person.