Gabriel woke before dawn.

The room was still dark, the window showing nothing but the faint outline of buildings across the street. He lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city filtering up through the floorboards. Footsteps. Voices.

The creak of carts already moving through the streets below.

He rose and checked the blades.

Both were clean, oiled, and secured in their sheaths. He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the weight settle across his back. The illusion sat over him like it had since Bridgedon.

He left the room and descended the stairs.

The woman behind the counter didn't look up as he passed. The door opened onto a street already awake, the city's rhythm unbroken by night. Workers moved in steady streams toward factories and warehouses.

Carts rolled past loaded with goods. A man swept refuse from his doorstep while another argued with a merchant over the price of bread.

The former Paladin stepped into the flow and let it carry him deeper into Adaranthe.

The morning wore on as he walked.

Purpose guided his movements now, but without haste. Information acquisition. He needed to understand the city's structure before he could navigate it properly. Where Church authority was concentrated. Where it thinned. Where the gaps existed.

The districts shifted gradually as he walked. The buildings grew older, their facades cracked and patched with mortar that didn't match the original stone. The crowds changed. Fewer merchants. More labourers.

Women standing in doorways with eyes that tracked movement without engagement. Children running errands or begging depending on their luck.

Guards appeared less frequently here, and when they did, their posture was different. Looser. Their attention selective rather than focused. They watched for certain kinds of trouble and ignored the rest.

Church authority thinned into abuse in places like this.

The former Paladin watched for patterns. The way people moved. Where they avoided. Which streets emptied faster than others when certain figures appeared.

He listened for the sound of armour, the particular noise of boots that carried weight and training.

A Paladin was what he needed.

Someone who would know things. Someone whose presence here would mean something beyond routine patrol. Someone whose absence would eventually be noticed, but not immediately.

The sun climbed higher as he moved through the outer districts. The streets narrowed. The buildings pressed closer together, their upper floors leaning inward until the sky became a thin strip overhead.

Laundry hung from lines stretched between windows. Smoke drifted from cookfires and small forges. The smell changed. Rot. Waste. Sweat. The particular staleness of too many people pressed into too little space.

He turned down a street that ran parallel to what looked like a market square. Stalls lined one side, selling vegetables, dried fish, cheap cloth.

The other side was residential, doorways opening onto cramped spaces where families lived and worked in the same rooms.

A corner provided a vantage point. He stopped and waited.

The flow of traffic revealed patterns. Who moved freely. Who hesitated. Who avoided which streets. A woman carrying water turned away from an alley before reaching it. A merchant redirected his cart rather than pass a certain building.

Small adjustments. Unconscious. The kind that came from learned experience rather than posted warnings.

The information was filed away. He continued.

Three hours after leaving the boarding house, he found what he was looking for.

A man stood at the mouth of an alley, head uncovered, white cloak marked with a sigil that registered immediately. The hammer and shield of the Archangel Ganut. Dwarven craftsmanship.

That was wrong.

Paladins of Ganut's church operated out of Orserion, the Dwarven kingdom far to the east. They did not operate alone in human cities. They moved with delegations, with purpose tied to diplomacy or contract enforcement.

They certainly didn't stand in back alleys of the outer districts watching women pass.

The former Paladin slowed his pace without stopping entirely.

The Dwarf's attention tracked a figure moving down the street. A woman, carrying a basket. Her pace was quick. She seemed to know where she was going. The Paladin's posture shifted slightly as she approached, weight settling differently, his attention sharpening.

The woman turned down a side passage, disappearing from view.

The Paladin waited a moment, then followed.

Gabriel adjusted his path and moved parallel, cutting through a narrow gap between buildings. The passage stank of waste and old smoke, the walls close enough that his shoulders nearly brushed both sides. He emerged onto a service stair that overlooked the alley below, wooden railings rotted but solid.

The woman had stopped.

She stood with her back to the far wall, basket held in front of her like a barrier. The Paladin blocked the way back to the street, positioned deliberately to cut off retreat. His stance was casual, unthreatening on the surface, but his placement left no room for misunderstanding.

Gabriel descended the stairs without sound.

The Dwarf's voice carried up, low and controlled. "You don't need to hurry off."

The woman shook her head. "I need to get home."

"Stay a moment."

"I can't. My husband's expecting me."

He smiled. "Then he can wait a little longer."

The woman tried to step around him, angling toward the gap between his body and the wall. He shifted to block her, movement smooth and practiced. She stopped.

"Please," she said. Her voice was steady but strained. "Let me pass."

"In a moment."

Gabriel reached the bottom of the stairs. His boots met packed dirt without sound. He stayed in the shadow of the stairwell, watching.

The woman tried again, this time moving more decisively. The Paladin's hand shot out and caught her arm. His grip was tight enough to stop her cold, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeve.

"I said wait."

She tried to pull away. "Let go of me."

His grip tightened. "You don't give me orders."

The woman's free hand came up, pushing against his chest. The Paladin's other hand moved to her shoulder and shoved her hard.

The woman fell backward, her basket spilling across the stones. Vegetables rolled into the gutter. The clay jar inside shattered, oil spreading in a dark pool. She scrambled backward, hands scraping against the ground, breath coming faster now.

The Dwarf followed, dropping to one knee beside her. His hand caught the front of her dress at the neckline.

"Stop," the woman said. Louder now. Fear breaking through.

The Paladin pulled. Fabric tore with a sharp sound that echoed off the alley walls. The woman's hands came up to protect herself, trying to hold the torn dress closed.

"Don't make this difficult," the Paladin said quietly.

Gabriel moved.

Three strides crossed the distance, boots striking stone in rapid succession. His hand went to the hilt over his shoulder, blade coming free in a smooth draw that made no sound beyond the whisper of steel leaving leather.

The Dwarven Paladin heard him at the last moment.

He started to turn, hand releasing the woman's dress, reaching for his own weapon.

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