I don’t need to.
I hear the scrape. I feel the shift in the air. By the time I reach that section, the damage will already be done.
It always is.
Prick, I think to myself, knowing better than to even mutter it out loud.
The sun sits high but muted, filtered through a thin gray haze that never quite burns off over Orthani. The light turns everything a dull silver—stone paths, trimmed hedges, the long stretch of the reflecting pool cutting through the garden like a blade.
I move along its edge now, refilling my bucket. The water is still, cold enough to sting when my fingers dip too deep. My reflection wavers back at me—red hair tucked tight beneath my scarf, dirt smudged along my jaw, eyes that look more tired than they should.
“Don’t stop.”
The voice comes from behind me. Sharp. Dark elf.
I straighten immediately, stepping back from the pool.
“Yes, sir.”
He doesn’t even look at me as he passes, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the gardens. That’s better. Being seen is worse than being ordered.
I lower my gaze, wait until his footsteps fade, then return to work.
Count the guards.
It’s habit now. Not something I think about—just something I do.
Two at the east wall. One near the servant entrance. Another pacing the perimeter path behind the hedges.
Their routes overlap every few minutes. There’s a gap—brief, but it’s there—near the far corner where the wild growth presses too close to the stone.
I don’t need it today.
But I notice it anyway.
By the time the inspection comes, I’m already behind.
Fenrix made sure of that.
“Line up,” one of the overseers snaps, his voice cutting across the garden. “Tools down.”
I set the bucket aside, wiping my hands against my skirt before stepping into place with the others. We form a loose line along the path, heads lowered, shoulders angled just enough to look obedient without slouching.
The overseer walks slowly, inspecting the rows. His features are blunt and homely for a dark elf. No double that’s part of why he has this unglamorous job. But he’s higher up than me, of course, and shit rolls downhill.
I track him without lifting my eyes—listening to the cadence of his steps, the pause when something catches his attention.
He stops two rows down from me.
Silence stretches.
Then—
“What is this?”
My stomach drops.
Boots scrape. A shift of bodies. I don’t move.
