“If you’re reading this then something must have happened to us. I don’t know what it was, but if you’ve found this letter then you must be desperate. This belongs to you now. We hoped you’d never need it, and we tried our best to make sure you wouldn’t, but I suppose it wasn’t enough. I don’t know where you are, or what you’ve been through, but please, don’t go to Morntalos.
“It isn’t safe for you there.”— Folded piece of paper, Melara Rilynndar
“How did you know she was there, sir?”
The captain shrugged. “Intuition,” he said.
The guard looked the kiana up and down. Dark leather armour, long white hair combed over on one side of her face, and a flowing cape of fine fabric trailing the ground behind her, the cloth woven with a pattern of delicate silver webs.
“She wears the mistress’ cloth!” hissed the guard quietly. She gripped the kiana’s arm harder.
“Speak freely. She does not speak the high tongue,” said the captain.
“…How can you be sure?”
“She was never taught.”
The guard narrowed her eyes at the kiana, then turned back to face the captain. “What’s to become of her?”
The captain looked at the prisoner out of the corner of his eye, then exhaled. “That’s for Morennel to decide. Death, probably.”
“But she wears the cloth…”
“She’s a thief and a murderer,” said the captain. “The cloth says nothing more than her being quicker with a blade than its former owner.”
The guard nodded. “…How did she come here?”
Kalanmyr turned his head to face his sister. “I’m not sure. But she’ll soon wish she hadn’t.”