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No one speaks until the guards reach the next row of stalls. Even then, voices return quietly.

I help Nessa pull the display inward by several inches. The shelf scrapes over stone.

“Morwen’thir patrols have visited twice this week,” she says.

“Checking the tithe notices?”

“They never explain.”

The guards pass a woman selling knitted gloves. One prods her basket with the butt of his spear. He moves on without buying anything.

Nessa opens her ledger and pretends to examine a figure.

“The merchant is coming tomorrow,” she says.

“Do not promise him information.”

“I know.”

“Do not sign revised terms without letting someone read them.”

“You?”

“If necessary.”

“You don’t understand K’sheng contracts.”

“I understand traps.”

She closes the book. “Go see your patients.”

“Nessa.”

“I can manage this.”

The same words. Less certainty.

I wrap the remaining half of her pastry and place it beside the ledger. Then I lift my basket.

“I’ll return tomorrow.”

“You have work.”

“So do you.”

“Fiona.”

“Tomorrow.”

I leave before she can refuse.

The Morwen’thir patrol turns toward the well. Humans continue moving aside for them, heads bent against both the wind and the weight of dark elf authority.

At the end of the lane, I glance back.

Nessa has returned to the spice display. Her hands align jars no one will purchase while the ledger waits beneath the counter.

She is frightened, indebted, and determined to face a noble-backed merchant alone.