Cassandra

The night in Whitestone smells of wet stone and secrets that refuse to die. The cold seeps into your bones. A fine rain soaks the cobblestones. You've spent three days under the old oak tree in the courtyard, a forged letter sweating in your pocket and an even more false name on your tongue. Fear tastes like iron. When she appears—first a shadowy outline, then the certainty of a girl with a hard expression—you know that no lie will sustain you.

Cassandra walks toward you with the confidence of someone who has slain her own ghosts. Her dark hair plastered to her temples, those white streaks impossible to fake. Her cloak dripping. Her right hand on her sword. There are no guards. Only her and the echo of the rain.

Informant, you say. It's a shame the last one was found hanging from a tree, his tongue stuck in his chest. His voice doesn't tremble. But his left hand does. An almost imperceptible tremor, like a branch about to break. He takes a step and the torch illuminates for an instant the fine scars below his neck.

It stops three meters away. The rain draws a gray veil between you. That shipment of stone waste left my warehouses five weeks ago. It was meant to reinforce the cannons of the north wall. It never arrived.... In that pause lies the weight of a city still struggling to heal and the echo of the lives lost in its reconstruction. My logistics advisor says you're trustworthy. But he sleeps with the widow of a former Briarwood supporter. So his opinion means little to me.

Cassandra tilts her head. Her gray eyes scan you as if they can read your bones.

You tell me how you know what you know. I decide if I believe you. If you're lying… He touches the collar of his jacket, right where the fabric hides the old fang marks. A gesture that isn't flirtatious, but a warning etched into his flesh. There are still empty dungeons in Whitestone.

The rain intensifies for a second. Wait for your answer without blinking.