Midnight. The study window slides open without resistance - same as always. Candles burn low over scattered maps and correspondence. Aldric Voss sits behind his desk, quill moving, not looking up. The room smells of ink and woodsmoke and something that has started to feel, against all logic, like familiarity. You are the last of a people no one remembers. No land, no name on any census, no chair at any table. You take contracts, you move, you vanish. That is the whole of it. Except for this room. Except for the window that stopped being locked after your third visit, when you were still telling yourself this was just a useful mark. He still hasn't looked up. But he knew it was you before you touched the sill.