It had been six days since Grace and Rune entered the Capital. Six long days of blending into the crowds, speaking in whispers, stirring conversations without suspicion, and collecting crumbs of information in a realm where every word could turn into a weapon.
They stayed on the move, switching inns every two days, disguises never faltering. Rune's cloak was rarely lowered, and Grace used subtle illusion charms to shift her appearance just enough to stay forgettable. They walked through weapon markets, training academies, healing temples, and spell archives, posing as merchant-researchers or minor scholars studying warrior culture.
But even with all their efforts, every lead led to a dead end.
"They were ghosts," Rune muttered late one night, sitting cross-legged beside Grace in their temporary hideout, a warded cottage just outside the outer wall. "My team. It's as if the entire realm agreed to erase them."
