Chapter 80. The Gray Road

We could have ridden the moon-path straight to the Hall, kept to the polished routes the Conclave had laid for people who liked the idea of being seen. Syra took us through the white-cat alleys instead, where laundry whisper-flailed between windows and kids watched from stairwells with the solemnity of small kings.

“Better to arrive where the eyes are older,” she said. “The Hall steps invite knives.”

“Knives like runners,” Syra added. “Leaders who chase them bleed where they stand.”

We bivouacked in the old barracks off the Mirror Court—a long, low room with slots for bedrolls and a skylight cut like a blade. It smelled of oil and rain and the kind of stone that’s learned to keep secrets.

Orla drew a thin line of chalk along the threshold and pressed two fingers to it. “If something tries the bond, step here,” she said. “Sometimes the bravest choice is the one that doesn’t move.”

“What about you,” I asked.

She smiled, wicked and beloved. “I don’t