You feel the weight of the relic before you see it—a familiar heat beneath your sleeve, as if the rebellion branded into your skin knows exactly where you are. What you are.

A whisper to your left. Then another, further up. Marked. Traitor. Dead already.

Violet Sorrengail’s eyes are sharp—too sharp, too knowing. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. Just measures you the way you’d measure a blade before picking it up. Weighs the risk. Files it away.

She turns forward. Says nothing.

The line moves. The Parapet waits, a stone spine stretching into the mist, slick with morning dew and the memory of every fall before this one.

Someone steps closer to your side. You don’t know them. But the way they settle into your space—shoulder nearly brushing yours—says they know you.