The market pulsed with life.
Vendors shouted over one another from behind colorful stalls draped in linen and spices. Children weaved between barrels of fruit, laughter ringing like bells. The scent of roasted nuts, fresh bread, and smoke hung heavy in the air.
But Lyra moved through it all like a shadow.
Her hood was drawn low, her steps swift and focused. Her eyes flicked from face to face, scanning every alley, every corner—as if searching for something.
Or someone.
Penny followed closely, her lips pressed into a tight line, concern shadowing her features. She didn't ask questions—not yet—but she never let Lyra stray too far from her gaze.
Then Lyra stopped.
So suddenly that Penny nearly collided into her.
Before she could speak, Lyra turned sharply, eyes locked on something in the distance. Her posture sharpened—alert, tense, drawn like a bowstring.
And then—she bolted.
"My lady!" Penny called, alarmed, but her voice was swallowed by the bustle around them.
