The city pressed close that day. Siuol's streets reeked of salt and tar, gulls shrieking overhead as dockhands shouted for space. Markets spilled over with spices and exotic wares hauled in from the port, the air thick with voices, the tide pulling it all toward the sea. Leoleta kept his steps even, shadowing Cassandra through the press of bodies.
She wove between stalls with restless energy, her eyes wide, her hands hovering over baskets of glass beads, silver trinkets, and charms that glimmered in the morning light. She bought one, then another, her movement light and darting. She reminded him of a bird, never still long enough to cage.
He drew a slow breath. Today's itinerary was meant to be simple: the young Lady of Delmar attending to appearances—ceremonial openings, charity visits, quiet gestures to smaller houses that made up Siuol. It was the kind of duty that kept the gossips fed and the vassals satisfied. He wished Liaerin were here to keep Cassandra occupied; the handmaid had a way of distracting her when patience frayed.
"Tell me," she said suddenly, her voice sharper than before. She didn't turn, her hand lingering on a trinket as though the question weighed more than the silver in her palm. "When nobles insult each other, what follows?"
Leoleta frowned. He hesitated, sifting the words before letting them fall. "Retribution. Trade revoked. Alliances tested."
Cassandra glanced back at him, brow furrowed. "So it's always a game of punishment?"
"Always a game," he said flatly. His eyes tracked the crowd, but his tone carried the weight of memory. "Someone said to me once perception outlasts fact. What matters is not the insult itself, but how loudly you answer it. Houses that whisper back are forgotten. Houses that roar are remembered."
Her lips pressed thin, her fingers tightening around the trinket she'd picked up. "And if one chooses silence?"
He nodded. "Then silence is taken as consent—or weakness." His shoulders shifted beneath his cloak, restless. "Politics is blade-work, my lady. Just slower, with ink instead of steel."
She studied him for a long moment, then let the trinket fall back into the merchant's hand.
"And when commoners insult nobles?" she pressed.
"Imprisonment. Whips," he said flatly.
She glanced at him then, her pale eyes narrowing as though she had caught something in his tone. "You don't approve of these methods?"
The guards a few yards behind them shifted, almost waiting to see what he would say. He should have stayed silent. Guards did not approve or disapprove. But the words slipped out anyway. "My approval means very little, my lady. The lash still falls whether they find innocence or guilt in my experience."
"Of course—absolutely barbaric."
Her gaze lingered, searching him as if he were a book she had never opened before. He shifted his stance, scanning the rooftops instead, willing her attention elsewhere.
Still she asked, "Then tell me—how do I act now? Do I ignore the insult, or demand more of my brothers than cutting trade?"
He clicked his tongue. This was not what he was meant for. He was a hired sword, not a statesman. And yet—Verran's words stirred like coals long buried: You can't always change the blow, but you can shape the story told of it. Control what follows, not what came before.
Leoleta exhaled slowly. "If you demand blood, you'll look desperate. If you ignore it, you'll look weak. Better to let your brothers rage while you remain steady. Let Merek's words sink him, not you."
Her lips parted as though she might protest, but instead she gave the faintest nod. "You speak as though you've seen this play before."
"I've seen men destroy themselves," he admitted, voice low. "Usually while thinking they were the cleverest in the room."
For a moment, she smiled—small, brittle, but real. "Perhaps you are cleverer than you claim, Sir Leoleta."
He did not answer. Each word he gave her chipped at the wall he'd built. Already, she was leaning on him—not as a guard, but as something else. A confidant. He had not asked for the role, and yet here it was, laid across his shoulders like another oath.
He had to keep his mind elsewhere.
They reached the sea wall, where the morning began to clear and the tide slapped against stone. Cassandra leaned into the breeze as if the salt air could carry her burdens away. Leoleta watched her shoulders ease, if only slightly.
"Sometimes," she murmured, her gaze on the horizon, "I feel like the ocean is calling to me…" Her voice trailed off, caught by the wind, as though she herself wasn't certain if it was a confession or merely a thought set free.
Leoleta stepped beside her. "You don't like being home," he said.
She blinked, surprised, then offered a crooked smile. "Is it that obvious?"
"You fidget more," he said. "And you've stopped arguing when I suggest you leave the estate."
She huffed a laugh. "Maybe I just prefer when you're not sulking behind pillars."
"I don't sulk."
"You lurk."
"I guard."
Her gaze returned to the sea. "Either way… it's easier to breathe out there."
The wind surged, tugging strands of her pale hair loose until they danced like threads of starlight, catching the sun. In the same breath the gust tore through the quay below—blowing back the edge of a cloaked figure's garment. The glimpse was brief, but enough: a gloved hand, too still, too intent. Leoleta's eyes narrowed.
His hand brushed the hilt at his hip, an instinct disguised by folding his arms. He weighed the streets ahead, the alleys branching like veins, every exit memorized.
A subtle glance toward the two guards shadowing them was all it took. They peeled off without a word, slipping into the flow of bodies to sweep the side streets. If the watcher followed, he would not do so unseen.
"Shall we?" Leoleta said at last, tone steady, controlled. "There's time before the midday watch."
She eyed him, cautious. "Go where?"
"The bookshop you like," he said. "Crooked Lane. Smells like rain and parchment."
Her smile, this time, was unguarded. It caught him unprepared—something warm in the cold morning. He looked away before it could linger, sealing the image behind his ribs where it had no right to stay.
"You've been paying attention."
"It's my job," he said, already angling her away from the quay and into the tight-pressed streets. "And I take it seriously."
Cassandra didn't notice the change in his pace, the way he guided her down narrower lanes, choosing paths where the press of bodies gave cover. The figure followed at first, shifting through the crowd like smoke—but when Leoleta quickened their steps, turned sharp into Crooked Lane, and let the old bookshop swallow them, the shadow did not appear at the far end.
He lingered at the threshold a beat too long, scanning the street, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The passersby looked ordinary: an old man with a cane, two children carrying baskets, a cart piled with turnips. Nothing.
Still, the unease clung to him. He told himself he'd shaken the trail. But he knew better.