Two men arrived with one smile between them. One said he was Alpharius. The other also said he was Alpharius. It was, in their way, true. A hydra pin was visible, then was not.
"You want me to prove I know you," Aurelia said. "I choose to know you later and like you now."
"Unwise," said Alpharius. "Trust is a weapon when aimed poorly."
"Then I will aim it at today," she said.
She looked from one to the other. "I am the one who welcomes you as you are," she added, voice even. "You do not have to be more to me—and I will not be someone else for you." The pause that followed was not victory; it was thought. A small, identical tell flickered in the same heartbeat: both men adjusted a cuff and set a foot half a pace back, the mirror of a decision neither would name. The hydra pin flashed once and vanished. She noticed; she always would.
She smiled—almost conspiratorial. "If you ever want something from me," she said, "I prefer mischief to masks. Aim it at Roboute or Dorn, if you like. Help me choose a prank." Both men smiled—identical, reluctant, amused—and in the same heartbeat decided that sometimes mischief was a good way to practice.
They left unsettled, the rare hunters whose net did not tighten. In a crowded market, a week later, three respectable citizens separately decided against a plot for no reason they could quite name. Somewhere, a coin landed on its edge and stayed there, and a quieter knowledge remained with them: she would always know.