Lucian listened while the street carried him forward, stone underfoot worn smooth by years of carts and shoes, voices drifting from open doors without ever settling on him.
Quenya kept pace at his side, head tilted, eyes fixed on him rather than the road.
"You still have not answered," she said. "You said it was leverage and timing. That does not explain why her."
Lucian let out a breath and adjusted his course to avoid a pair of porters arguing over a crate.
"It explains part of it," he said. "The rest is the stain."
"The stain," Quenya repeated.
"In noble circles," he said, "Adaorys Hadethon has a name no one uses aloud."
Quenya's brow furrowed. "Then why does it exist."
"Because people speak where they believe they are unseen," he said. "Servants. Visitors. Lesser houses who trade whispers the way others trade spices."
She waited, patient in a way that made him feel as though he owed her the truth rather than a summary.
"They call her the Cursed cripple," Lucian said.
