06:00 a.m. - At Market Square, Dawnspire
Marcellus woke with the cupped light on his boots. The pallet smelled of straw and stale bread. His hands found the iron Warborn ring by habit and he turned it three times before he slid it on. The Duskbloom betrothal band sat on the table, small and bright like a coin left where you'll trip over it. He did not touch it.
(I keep the blade oiled because it gives me something sensible to do when the room wants to shout.)
He dressed slow and quiet. The city outside moved in its small morning rhythms—cart wheels, the hiss of kettles, a rooster's complaint—and he listened for the sounds that said people were awake and the sounds that said people kept their heads down. He tied his strap and tested his boots with a toe.
Marcellus (sits up, breathes): "Food. Then what I can find."
He slipped into the lane and kept his head low. Two Aurelthorn soldiers were already on him like a shade: distant enough not to be alarms, near enough to be a problem. He did not like being watched. Being watched once had meant straw, cold, and knives at a fire. The memory had left small things the same—how shadows lengthened at night, the taste of old bread.
(They put curtains over our eyes. I will find cracks.)
He bought a hunk of bread from a baker whose hand showed honest work. He let the coin change hands without fuss.
Marcellus (hands over coin): "A hot piece. Tell me if you see men watch the square in black and closed crests."
Baker (wipes hands): "Men watch plenty. We do not ask the crown's reasons. If they lean wrong, we move our boxes."
The baker gave him a look that meant he'd listen for it. That was the kind of answer Marcellus wanted. He ate small bites and listened. News here flowed in small streams—through a stable boy with a swollen thumb, a cart driver's joke, a woman who whispered about a road that had been blocked. The town criers told the public story, the market told the other.
(If I need truth, I will listen where mouths lower it. The loud talk is a plan for blind men.)
He moved along the edge of the square and kept the soldiers in sight. One of them paused to ask a vendor about grain, the soldier's eyes flicked up and down the market as if counting who looked at whom. Their pauldron bore the small, hard mark of Aurelthorn, the one that meant they kept questions close. Marcellus let them think he meant to buy more bread. He let them shadow him like two dull crows.
Aurelthorn Soldier (glances, casual): "He moves like one who thinks he owns the street. Keep him in sight."
Aurelthorn Soldier (companion): "He's marked enough. The Warborn name moves strange here. Watch he does not call men to him."
(They think a name is a flag. They forget what men do without flags.)
Marcellus threaded into a narrow alley that smelled of oil and wet iron. He knew the patterns of Dawnspire—the oven smoke routes, the alley that let in fresh water, the trader who would trade news for a better crust. At the back entrance to a shop, a woman weighed out cloves and muttered something about crates. He paused long enough for her to nod.
Clove Woman (low): "You look like you carry trouble. Trade for a rumor?"
Marcellus (steps closer, low): "A single scrap. Who moves the carts at night near the east ford?"
Clove Woman (hushed): "Carts move for coin. If men buy silence, the carts sleep tight. I heard a wagon burn and a voice call once. Not for the market."
She gave him the kind of answer that was all edges and no shape. That was enough.
(They burn what they do not want measured. We count ashes and call it a map.)
He walked back toward the square, keeping the soldiers' shadows in a corner of his eye. He had little pieces of news: a gap near the east road, a burned wheel, a priest who remembered a face. That would have to do. He kept to the stalls, fingers brushing jasper and cord, until he came to the place he should not see anything at all.
Near the fountain, a small cluster of people stood apart from the shops. It was not the public ring of a market—no hawker's cry, no clerk's discount. They were few and moved slow, wrapped in cloaks and looking like travellers who drank too much smoke. Their hands were closed. Their voices were low. This was the kind of gathering that did not want the square to know.
(If they hide, they hide for a reason. Keep your face as quiet as their mouths.)
From a distance he thought he saw the braid that Seraphina wore. Not the broad show of a general, not armor and banner, but a simple braid looped low. He blinked as if the light might be wrong. Around her stood no crowd, there were only a handful of familiar shapes—two men from the east who had been at a watch, a midwife, a smith who had once run with a Duskbloom contingent. They all kept their heads low.
Marcellus (stops, breath held): "There."
He moved closer, careful now. The Aurelthorn soldiers were a block away, tied up with merchants. They weren't looking for a woman in a cloak. They were looking for a man who might start something. That gave him a sliver.
(If they see me move straight to them, I will be a prize. Move like any other man, not like one who scents a crossing.)
He stepped forward with the ease of someone who was used to lanes and faces. He kept his hands open where people could see they were empty. That was what hostage taught him—hands empty, no sudden motion. The small group did not flinch. Some of their faces were drawn tight.
Seraphina (steps aside, measured): "You should not make a show here, Marcellus."
Marcellus (near, low): "I do not want a show. I want a corner of your time. News has a way of getting sold with a price. I want what is true."
Lyscia (watchful): "This is not a place for names to be carried. You know that."
Seraphina's voice was flat and steady. She did not look like someone who needed proof of another person's value. There was no public ring of curious folk. Only a few quiet pairs of eyes, and then the sound of the square going on as if nothing strange was happening.
(They kept us from the council tables. I will stand where a secret is safe.)
Marcellus (soft, to Seraphina): "I thought you were dead. They kept their mouths closed and called it peace."
Seraphina (sharp, almost a blade): "We keep the secret. You keep yours. The less the square knows, the better for all."
Seraphina (quiet): "She was in Greywatch Bastion. We pulled her out in the dark—no one here must know."
He wanted to reach for her hand. He did not. He kept his hands where they would not frighten the watchers. The midwife by Seraphina's shoulder looked like a woman who knew wounds and birth, there was a careful way she placed a cloak to hide a bandage.
Marcellus (quiet, steady): "Then tell me in a place that hears no traders. One hour. The oven back by the market—by the old well. No more than that."
Seraphina (glances, soft just for a tick): "An hour. Behind the baker's oven. And no one but the baker's wife."
Lyscia (gives a small nod): "That will keep ears off the square."
Marcellus folded his face into a plain thing. He bowed slightly as if to a comrade, not to a lady.
Marcellus (nods): "One hour. I will not make a scene."
Aurelthorn Soldier (from across the square, distracted): "Make sure the crates for the granary leave on time."
Aurelthorn Soldier (companion): "Aye. Keep the lines clear."
The soldiers' words were nothing more than the tick of duty. They did not know who stood under the cloaks. They did not know their papers mattered more than the bodies they covered. That was how the city kept its rules: some things were public, some things were private. The fugitives depended on the private.
(We are allowed to be small if the world is loud. That is our shield.)
He moved away with the slow step of a man who would not call attention. He watched Seraphina one last time. There was a small softness at the corner of her mouth he had not expected. That was not the face the square would see. The square would see a woman who kept her shoulders square and her voice short. He walked and did not smile.
Marcellus (to himself): "I owe my house a name and my men their lives. I will not trade either blind."
He slipped into the lane behind the baker and found the old well. The baker's wife put a pie in his hands without a question and nodded as if all this was ordinary.
Baker's Wife (faint smile): "You look like a man with a story. Eat. I'll keep the oven warm and the door shut."
Marcellus (accepts, grateful): "Thank you."
He sat on a low stone with the smell of yeast and heat and listened to the town breathe. Quiet news came in small pieces—the smith who said a cart had a new wheel, the boy who said a horse had been seen near the ford—each a thread. He braided them slowly in his mind.
(If men hide truth, they do it with cart wheels and fire. Count the small burns and you see the road.)
He finished the pie and left the woman a coin. He walked back into the square as if he had no plan. The soldiers shifted their weight but did not come to him. They were busy with a merchant who had a bad parchment and a bad temper. That gave Marcellus the room he needed.
A young girl—a little sister, small and serious—bumped into his leg and looked up at him with eyes that had already seen more than they should. He put down a coin and a smile.
Marcellus (squats, offers coin): "Keep your doll close, little sister. And do not let anyone pull it from you."
Girl (nods, shy): "Thank you, sir."
He moved through the crowd and then stepped into a narrow passage that led to the back of the stalls. There, behind a stack of sacks, he waited. He had said the place in an hour. He knew Seraphina would not risk going publicly until she had to. He knew Lyscia would watch the exits.
(We do what we must. We do not show our hands to those who would score them.)
Time passed slow. The square's sounds ebbed and swelled. He checked the ring that had never needed shine and rubbed a bit of fat on the bracer he kept for comfort. He breathed the bread-scent and waited. He thought of the nights on straw and the knives at the fire. He thought of the men who took watch and the men who trusted him.
Marcellus (quiet): "If duty asks my life, I will pay it. If duty asks my will, I will bargain."
He had not been taken lightly. The memory of that time shaped small decisions now—keep hands empty, speak plain, do not trust the loud men. Dawnspire did not know who stood near the fountain. That was for the best. The fugitives needed silence like other men needed sleep.
!(If you choose fear, you feed the fire. If you choose watch, you feed your kin!)
He did not shout it. He did not need to. The thought sat in him like a small, hot coal. He would not be the one to call the city. He would be the one to keep what he could.
An hour later Seraphina came, wrapped in a plain cloak with the hood low. She moved with the easy, careful step of a soldier who knew how to go unnoticed. Lyscia walked two paces behind her, eyes like knives. No one noticed them. The baker's wife closed the oven door and watched them pass like a woman who keeps a secret for the price of a pie.
Seraphina (soft, once they were alone): "You kept your word."
Marcellus (rises, steady): "You kept safer than I had hope."
She folded back the edge of her cloak to show a bandage at her shoulder, clean and tended. The sight of wounds that were not meant for show was a private thing in this square. He nodded and did not reach for it.
Marcellus (low): "Tell me what you can, where ears do not count it as trade."
Seraphina (quiet): "We moved under the moon. We found Lyscia in the edge of the wood. She was… not whole, but alive. We could not bring the news to the castle. Too many ears. Too many plates who wanted to be first at a feast."
Lyscia (adds, guarded): "We moved for the good of the wood and the safety of the lane. The town must not know. If Dawnspire knows who moves in their laps, the whole thing will be retaken in a day."
Marcellus (nods, slow): "You risked much for that. I owe you. That is not a small debt."
Seraphina (measured): "We do what must be done. The less men in the market know, the longer we live."
Marcellus (soft): "Then let us be methodic. Where did you see the tracks? Where did they not pass?"
She gave a line of directions—careful, thin, like a map spoken in half-phrases. He braided them into the plans he already had. With this, he could set small watches, move the stores, find the men who had been paid to silence carts.
(We hold by small measures. We hold a road with a single man in a ditch if the man is the right one.)
They spoke low and came to a plan: a shift of a cart route, a watch at the ford, a shelter for the broken. The baker's courtyard smelled of yeast and secrecy. He felt steadier with each small plan.
Marcellus (to Seraphina, quiet): "I will stand where you tell me. If men need a pair of hands at the ford, I will be there. But I will not send others into a false light."
Seraphina (a small, almost private smile): "Then keep your men where they can be seen as tradesmen. Let no one know the soldier waits behind a stack of sacks."
Lyscia (says nothing, her face is a net of plans)
They made small arrangements. No bells, no proclamations. The city would go on thinking the square had no such guests. That was the truth they needed.
Marcellus (rises to leave): "I will make the routes safer. Tell me what time you need a watch."
Seraphina (answers, quick): "At dusk and at first bell. Two men at the ford. No more."
Marcellus (nods): "Two men then. I will name them. I will keep my mouth shut."
He left them in the shadow of the baker's walls and walked back into the square. The Aurelthorn soldiers were still about, still counting crates, still not looking too deep into small cloaks. The market breathed around him, unaware and therefore safer.
(We keep the secret and the city stays. That is the trade we can live with.)
He moved through the lanes with the steadiness of a man who had chosen a small thing and kept it. Dawnspire had not known that those cloaks hid fugitives. That night, if things went well, the road would be quieter, the carts safer by an inch, and a woman who had been thought dead would sleep under a roof that did not belong to the crown.
Marcellus (to himself, low): "We will keep what we can."
He walked on, each step a promise not shouted and not sold. The market turned and the city told no one they had been the stage of something secret. The secret was its own small victory.