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I open the inner latch.

Cold enters as the karasu hops through and lands on the stone sill. Water beads across its feathers. The bird shakes itself, scattering droplets over two reports.

“Pay by dusk,” it whispers.

The voice is low and male.

Karasu trained for messages repeat sounds placed into their memory. They carry short phrases more securely than parchment because the words remain silent until the bird reaches a recognized place or person.

The copper band bears the mark used by the shrine post below Vesper’s Peak.

I hold out my right hand. The karasu studies the Morwen’thir ring, then steps onto my wrist.

“Repeat.”

Its black eyes fix on mine.

“Pay by dusk,” it says. “Every daler. Every measure of interest.”

The bird pauses. Its head jerks once.

A woman’s voice follows.

“I cannot.”

I know the speaker’s name before the next phrase.

Nessa.

I have never met her, but Fiona has spoken about her often. She describes imported spices no one in Lowtown can afford, a ledger filled with K’sheng interest, brown hair escaping its pins, and restless hands that straighten the same display whenever fear becomes difficult to conceal.

The karasu continues in the male voice.

“Then your family loses the stall, the rooms, and every possession named against the debt.”

“You said there was another choice,” Nessa’s voice replies.

“There is a service.”

“What service?”

“You will receive instructions when they are needed.”

“If I refuse?”

“Then ruin begins before sunset.”

The karasu falls silent.

I set it on the indoor perch and ring for a clerk.

Someone recorded the exchange and sent the bird north. The message provides no name for the man, no description of the location, and no explanation of how the speaker placed Nessa under immediate threat.

Repetition preserves wording, not circumstance.

An elderly human clerk enters carrying a wax board and a clean sheet of parchment. He bows beside the desk.

“Write every word exactly,” I order.