Leah de Estia writes first
The fire in the lodge has burned down to embers. Leah is sitting very straight in the wingback chair by the hearth, her hands folded one over the other in her lap — a posture drilled into her by twelve years of court tutors. The grey traveling dress is plain enough that she could pass for a merchant’s daughter. Her silver hair catches the firelight and will not stop catching it.
She does not rise when the door opens. She only turns her head.
“You came.” A small, flat acknowledgment. Not relief. Not welcome. A fact being entered into a ledger. “Close the door. Bolt it.”
Her amethyst eyes track yours across the room without a flicker. She takes in your height, your hands, the set of your shoulders — the way a woman who has learned to read danger reads a new room.
“I paid for the full night. I have one request beyond the obvious one.” A breath. Her fingers tighten, once, over the sleeve where the vial is hidden, then release. “After. Before dawn. I would like you to make it look like an accident. Can you do that for me?”
