The shop was locked.

Not sealed with overt wards—just a simple glyph and a pin mechanism meant to delay, not deter. Aston pressed his back to the herb-draped wall, cloaked in silence, the moon barely brushing the tips of the shingled roof above.

Mirage hovered high in a silent glide, her wings folded into shadow. Gray waited in the alley below, invisible save for the quiet flick of a tail behind a broken barrel.

Aston moved.

He slipped between the window and rafters, disabling the glyph with a pulse of spiritual essence—the technique he learned from Instructor Oscar during Scouting Tactics. The window creaked—once, no louder than a breath—before letting him slip inside.

[Interior mapped. Light traces of spiritual activity. No ward pulses nearby.]

Aston nodded internally. Every step on the wooden floor was measured, his body remembering the exact placement of creaking planks from his previous visits.

The crate was there.

Same seal. Silver thread. Old wood warped by travel. Still unguarded.

He knelt.

The relay marker pulsed gently in his fingers, its core inactive. He tucked it beneath the rear edge of the crate, hidden from all but direct inspection. Then—

A chime rang at the door.

He froze.

Footsteps.

Soft.

Deliberate.

He crouched lower behind the counter, willing his breath to slow.

Linna Veydran entered. No cloak. No mask. Just her shawl and a quiet composure that sent tension lacing through Aston's spine.

Behind her, a man entered—a stranger with a scar across one cheek and a rough traveling cloak.

"Timing's tight," he said. "They want it moved before sunrise."

"I know," Linna replied. Her voice was soft, but the undercurrent of authority wasn't.

"The shipment's intact. No tampering."

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"They wouldn't know how to check," she said. "Still… I feel eyes."

The man's eyes narrowed. "From the empire?"

"No. Not directly. But someone. I can feel it."

The crate's wood beneath Aston's hand felt colder now.

The man shrugged. "We move it before light. Decoys are set."

"Good," Linna replied. "Tell Varn we shift the load through the eastern path, not the shrine gate."

He nodded, then exited through the back door.

Linna remained. Her fingers trailed lightly across the shop counter—lingering.

Then she left.

Aston waited.

Ten slow breaths. Then twenty.

Nova's message flared in his vision.

[Tracking beacon active. Crate locked. No detection registered.]

He moved—slipping through the window like fog, resealing the glyph, and darting into the alley.

The town around him was still, but its silence now felt… brittle.

Aston wound through the alleys, sticking to the tightest paths, skimming between shuttered homes and low stacked crates. Each step landed with practiced silence. The night air was thicker now—tension coiled around the corners of the town like breath held too long.

He didn't head directly for the edge.

Instead, he veered toward a side street that curved between the merchant's quarter and the northern wellhouse—an old sector that seemed abandoned to the inattentive. But Aston knew what to look for.

Down one sloped path, nestled behind two empty stalls, was a structure that still glowed faintly.

A tea house.

It had no sign, no music, and no seats outside.

But the lights were always on.

He stepped through the bead curtain of its door.

Inside, the air was thick with steam and herbal smoke. Low lanterns gave the room a muted amber glow. Shelves of dried petals, powdered roots, and old lacquered jars lined the walls. One attendant stood behind the curved counter—an older woman with thin silver bands across her sleeves. She didn't look up when he entered.

Aston approached.

The woman poured a slow stream of boiling water into a cup of steeped blueroot leaves.

He waited a beat.

Then spoke, just above a whisper.

"The moth only lands when no one watches."

The woman paused.

Then, without meeting his gaze, she slid a shallow wooden tray toward him. Inside was a polished stone—plain, but faintly etched with transit runes.

"Downstairs," she said simply. "Third door. Don't speak to anyone."

Aston gave a small nod, took the stone, and slipped through the curtain behind the counter.

A hallway.

Lanterns flickered behind fogged glass. The scent of tea gave way to the smell of damp stone. He descended two flights quietly and stopped at the third door—just like she'd said.

His hand hovered briefly over the handle.

Time to leave the mask behind.

Time to vanish.

He stepped inside.

And the door closed behind him.

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