The rain still lingered, a thin drizzle softening the edges of the street lamps as Lam crossed the courtyard toward the stables. Dawn had not yet broken; the air was gray, heavy with the scent of wet hay, rust, and smoke that never seemed to leave this district.
The stable's roof sagged in places, the wood blackened by years of weather and ash. Inside, a single lantern swayed from its hook, casting an amber light that turned dust and steam into drifting motes. The horses shifted restlessly at his approach, hooves thudding against damp straw, breath rising in soft plumes that caught the light like ghosts.
He found his mare where he had left her, tall, scarred, and silent, a streak of soot-colored fur down her flank like the memory of an old fire. Her left ear twitched at the sound of his boots before her dark eyes found him, calm and unblinking.
"You've fared better than most," he murmured, running his hand along her neck. Her warmth was grounding, alive, steady.
The stable-keep appeared from the next stall, a squat man with straw in his beard and the kind of suspicion that only poor men could afford. "Fine creature you've got there," he said. "Doesn't spook easily. What do you call her?"
Lam didn't answer at once. He studied the horse's mane, the half-healed cut along her haunch, the mark where the harness had once been burned into her flesh.
People here seem to be obsessed with names. Lam analysed as he thought about how people were quick to name things. Quick to claim ownership before they'd earned the right.
He considered saying as much, but decided against it. Drawing attention to his habits was unwise.
He tightened the saddle straps and checked the buckles, fingers moving with mechanical precision. The mare had been underfed when he found her in the ruined village near the anvil, which could also be a ruin, where the earth itself had split open, and the smoke still tasted of blood and iron.
He had walked away from that place with nothing but his blade and this horse that refused to die.
"Remnant," he said at last. "That'll do."
The man nodded slowly. "Not a bad name."
Lam couldn't tell if that was a sign of honesty or politeness. "Maybe not," he said. "But it's earned."
The stable-keep muttered something about feeding times and moved off.
Lam watched him go, then leaned close to the mare, lowering his voice. "Fitting or not, you survived," he said. "That's all that matters."
He left the stable and crossed the narrow yard to the inn. The rain was easing now, turning to mist that curled low around the cobbles. The lamps burned low, flickering orange through the fog.
Inside, the common room was nearly silent, just the low crackle of embers and the soft drip of rain from cloaks hung near the fire. A cleaning girl dozed by the hearth, her broom resting against her shoulder.
Lam moved past her without a sound and climbed the narrow staircase to his room.
His door was exactly as he had left it, but habit demanded proof. He brushed a fingertip across the frame, finding the faint smear of soot he'd left there. Unbroken. Good.
Inside, everything was in order. His pack rested against the wall, his coat hung neatly over the chair, and his blade lay by the bed, clean and oiled. He checked each item in turn: the knife, the powder flask, the folded scrap of parchment marked with the Anvil insignia.
Satisfied, he rose and went to the window.
He murmured under his breath, words too low to be language, whispers shaped by rhythm more than sound. The air shifted faintly, a ripple that passed through the wooden frame and settled like breath held in stillness. The warding was simple but sufficient.
He repeated it at the door, tracing invisible sigils into the wood with two fingers. He could almost feel the heat beneath his skin, faint and controlled.
When it was done, he sat on the edge of the bed. The candlelight wavered, throwing his shadow against the far wall.
Tomorrow.
By now, the Margrave's men would be tightening the garrison. A captured Marked, alive. That was rare. Dangerous. And valuable.
Lam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He needed access, not confrontation. The Razors were arrogant, but not careless. To question the prisoner, he would have to pass as one of them or one of the Reaper's contracted blades. Rorren's drunken invitation might serve as a foothold.
He would need to move before the Margrave returned. Once he returned, there would be little to no chance of getting near the cell.
His hand drifted to his knife, fingers resting lightly on the hilt.
Corvene Shade. Varien.
Their names came like echoes from another life, from the Anvil and all that was buried beneath it.
He had seen Corvene's work in the dead bodies across the halls, and Varien's blood marking the stones. There had been no time to search the bodies. No time to ask the questions that mattered.
But the prisoner, the captured Marked, might know.
And if he did, Lam would find a way to make him speak.
The wind shifted through the shutters, carrying the faint clang of a distant bell. Somewhere below, a cart rolled over the stones, hollow and slow. The smell of rain drifted in, mixed with ash.
Outside, the city was waking beneath the rain, unaware of the storm that would walk its streets by dusk. Lam rose, extinguished the candle, and stood by the window. In the glass, his reflection looked like a stranger staring back. "Tomorrow," he whispered, and for a heartbeat, it sounded less like a plan and more like a promise.
Lam leaned back, closing his eyes halfway. The kind of rest that came from discipline, not peace.
Tomorrow, he would find a way into the garrison.
And the silence left behind at the Anvil would finally answer him.