A Message in the Mist

The vendor reached into one of his baskets and, with practiced ease, flicked a small slip of parchment onto the edge of the cart as they passed. Mikhailis caught it between two fingers, unfolding it under the cover of his sleeve, keeping his gaze forward. The clamor of the caravan's wheels and the low hum of the mist was the only noise, but in this city, even that felt oppressively loud.

He glanced briefly at the note:

The Crownless House isn't the only faction watching.

His smirk faltered. How many factions could Luthadel hold before it burst? He cast a quick look backward, but the vendor was already gone, swallowed by the rolling fog and the shifting crowd. Beside him, Vyrelda noticed the slight tension in his posture.

"Something wrong?" she asked, her voice as calm as ever, though her hand hovered near the hilt of her sword.