Maris had been told not to touch anything that would make the Citadel look at her. Observe. Record. Report. Do not interact.

That was the easy part.

The hard part was making sure no one else thought she belonged.

She had a face for back alleys and a hands-for-tools manner she had practised until she could do it without thinking. Tonight, she moved through the corridors like someone who had lived in doorways all her life. The satchel at her side held a discrete receiver and a slim shard of data she’d harvested the previous day: breathing patterns, a thermal blip, a routine patrol change. It was a breadcrumb trail, but breadcrumbs in this place could lead to doors.

Her route took her by the observation arch where Master Devrik sometimes lingered. Devrik was there tonight, shadowed by lamplight, watching students cross the yard like a man who had missed a beat in a song and could not stop humming it under his breath.

Maris paused, half-hidden behind a maintenance column, and keyed her comm. A tiny ping in Sevran’s mesh confirmed a signal. She inched forward.

A cadet rounded the corner—too fast, too loud, the kind who brags easily to cover for cracks. He glanced at Maris and frowned. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here.”

Maris smiled, the practised kind that folds apology into a curve. “Transfer tech. My badge must not be in your system yet. Sorry.”

The cadet looked at the satchel, at her hands, at the way tools sat neatly in a pocket. He smiled—a small, arrogant bite that said he’d scored a favour from Life. “Right. Well, hurry up then.”

She waited until he carried on, shoulders loud behind him, and let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d held. The pulse at her throat slowed. No alarm had gone off. No one had pinned a suspicion on her.

She had not planned to come this close to Devrik. It had been a bonus. Devrik nodded once, not at her specifically, but at the small rhythm of the yard. It was enough. She slotted herself into the shadow and lifted her receiver, letting it drink the quiet.

Her comm fed a whisper back to Sevran: Observation intact. Devrik present. No action yet.

The reply was immediate in tone but thin in empathy. Let him do his work. If he asks questions, be ready to deflect with policy.

Maris watched Royushi as he moved like someone half in a dream and half awake. He looked tired, but not worn. The subtlety of him now was a different thing than the circus he’d put on earlier. It was a person learning the shape of his own mouth.

She shifted the receiver and caught a different sound: a recorder drone turning in a stairwell, a pair of boots approaching on the opposite side of the hall. She froze.

The boots belonged to an instructor with a slow step. He glanced in her direction for a second that stretched and curved and almost broke her cover.

Maris tightened her grip on the satchel and shoved a wrench into her hand, like a person who’d been caught doing nothing and immediately made an excuse.

“Everything okay, tech?” the instructor asked, breaking into the shadow with a voice that had been taught to give orders politely.

Maris smiled. “Yes, sir. Just checking a pressure valve.” She held the wrench like a prop.

He looked at her a moment longer, searching for the lie. He found policy—a neat folder in his head that said transfer techs were allowed to be clumsy. He nodded and moved on.

Maris exhaled when he left. Her hands were damp. She wiped them on her jacket and swallowed the small amount of adrenaline.

Report sent: Close call. The instructor almost checked me. No exposure. Sevran’s reply: Good. Continue. No contact with Devrik.

She moved deeper into the corridors. A scout’s life was one breath at a time—small exposures, small recoveries. It was boring, mostly. It was also dangerous. She liked both.