Second bell was still an hour off when a boy from the lower-branch quarter reached the Academy's public court too out of breath to give his own name first.
He found Vhar, Elara, and Nima where the morning meal had left them, bread half-eaten on the low wall beside the notice frame that still carried yesterday's summons under its iron plates. The boy's knees were grass-stained from running across the fallow strip instead of the road, and he'd lost a sandal somewhere behind him without noticing.
"Men came asking for Mirel," he said, once he had enough air to make the words come out in order. "Last night, and again before light, and this time they wanted to know where she sleeps, not where she works."
Elara set down her bread without finishing the bite already in her mouth. "Who is Mirel?"
"The one your Academy struck off the House's dead-body list." The boy looked between the three of them like he expected one of them to already know. "Everyone in the quarter knows her name now. You put it on paper, but paper won't stop men who come after dark."
Nima was already on her feet, the last of her own bread forgotten on the wall. "The worker from the failed rite."
Vhar had not heard the name Mirel before this morning, but he understood the danger. A woman whose survival had just embarrassed an entire House in public could vanish before any Academy paper ever reached her.
"How many men?" Vhar said.
"Four, maybe five, none in House colors, wearing plain coats like tradesmen." The boy swallowed hard enough that his throat clicked. "They moved off toward the grain stores an hour ago. My sister sent me the moment she saw them turn that way. She's known Mirel's mother since before either of us could walk."
No one asked whether to go. Elara reached for her practice shield, ironwood banded in steel, the only armament House Talvern's revoked sponsorship had left in her hands. Nima grabbed the boy's shoulder only long enough to ask which door was Mirel's, then let him point and go find somewhere safer to stand.
They took the market road at a pace that left the boy behind by the second turn, past stalls still setting up for the day, past a grain-inspector's cart that had to pull hard on its reins to clear the road in time.
---
The lower-branch quarter sat behind House Talvern's grain stores, a crowded run of single-room houses with shared water and no gate of its own. Vhar smelled damp thatch and old grain dust before he saw the street itself, and past the first row of houses, faces had already appeared in doorways, watching, none of them stepping out. Four men in plain coats stood outside a door with its latch already broken, one of them holding a coil of cord loose in his hand, ready.
A fifth man stepped through the broken doorway, broader and older than the rest, a warden's short blade worn openly at his hip, a woman's arm gripped above her elbow. She was not struggling. She had the flat, careful stillness of someone who had already decided that struggling would cost her more than compliance ever would.
"There she is," Nima said, low.
He closed the distance before the warden finished turning toward the street. "Let go of her arm. You have one chance to decide that yourselves."
The warden's grip did not loosen. "House business. Move on."
"A broken latch and a hand still locked on her arm say otherwise."
The cord-holder threw first, a low underhand cast meant to catch ankles rather than warn anyone. Elara read it before it left his hand and was already moving to meet it. She caught the thrown loop on the shield's rim and rolled her wrist through the catch, and the cord's own momentum wrenched it clean out of the thrower's grip.
THWACK!
The coil struck the packed dirt a full stride from where it had been aimed. The man who'd thrown it had nothing left in his hands and half a second to understand that.
Elara used the half-second. She drove the shield's edge into his sternum, angled flat, not hard enough to break anything, hard enough that he sat down without ever deciding to.
THUD!
Two more came at Vhar together, one high with a short club, one low trying for his knees. Vhar let the club fall against his raised forearm, where it cracked against bone that had absorbed worse than a stick swung by a frightened tradesman, and put his open palm into the low attacker's shoulder before the man's grip closed on anything worth holding. The shoulder gave with a wet pop under the joint, a dislocation and not a break, deliberate. Four living men handed to the evidence gate were worth more than four broken ones who couldn't answer a question.
CRACK!
The club splintered against Vhar's arm on the second swing. He took what remained of it out of the man's grip and let the pieces fall into the dirt between them.
Nima had no shield and no reach, so she read the ground instead. The fourth man was backing away from Vhar with no plan beyond distance, straight toward the narrow gap between two houses where the water trough sat against the side wall. She got there first, planted her shoulder against the trough's edge, and drove it over into his path.
SPLASH!
He hit the sudden mud underfoot with no warning to brace against it, arms wheeling for a rail that wasn't there, and went down hard enough that the breath left him in one loud grunt.
That left the warden, still gripping Mirel's arm, his free hand drifting toward the short blade at his hip.
"Draw that," Vhar said, "and I stop deciding you get to walk away from this."
The warden looked at four men down: one sitting stunned against a wall, one holding a ruined shoulder, one face-first in trough water, one standing empty-handed over a coil he'd never reclaim. He let go of Mirel's arm.
"We were sent to move her past the boundary stones before the Academy's summons could reach her," he said. "No one ordered a killing."
"Give me the name behind it."
The warden's jaw worked once, twice, before he answered. "Nobody tells a hired hand who signs the order." His hand, drifting away from the blade at his hip, brushed a sealed token tucked inside his coat, and he made no move to stop Vhar from taking it.
---
Mirel did not run to anyone. She stood in her own doorway with both arms wrapped around herself, watching four grown men lose a fight to a boy her own quarter had already decided was untouchable, and she did not look relieved so much as exhausted by everything she'd had to calculate to survive this long.
"They took my mother's ring three days after I was dismissed," she said, to no one in particular, once the street had gone quiet enough for her voice to carry without effort. "No ledger recorded it. A steward's private fee, he called it, and no one wrote it down anywhere I could point to later. The ration debt your House officer canceled is nothing beside that."
"We'll want a record of the ring," Elara said. "Something that holds up if anyone ever asks. Not another knock on your door."
"I don't want House Talvern's steward at my door a second time over a ring." Mirel's voice held steady, though it was quieter now than it had been. "Whether I see that House again is my choice, not theirs. Today I'm choosing no. Not them, and not whoever else shows up claiming to speak for them."
He took in the broken latch, the four men on the ground, and a woman who had survived a rite meant to kill her only to spend years afterward absorbing House Talvern's ordinary cruelty alone, with no paper anywhere naming what it had cost her. "I'll have it recorded the way you just said it. No restitution moves without your word on it first."
Nima crouched beside the man with the ruined shoulder long enough to check it wasn't bleeding into the joint, competent about it in a way that surprised no one who'd watched her work a rescue before. "She still needs a door that actually locks."
"She'll have one," Elara said. "Tonight, before I sleep."
Academy guards arrived at a run behind them, drawn by a runner from the quarter's edge, and took the four downed men off Vhar's hands one restraint at a time. The warden they walked toward the Academy's evidence gate stared back once at the sealed token still resting in Vhar's palm, and said nothing else worth recording.
---
Vhar opened the token on the walk back, once Mirel was settled behind a door two Academy guards would watch through the coming night. Inside the wax was a single strip of paper, one line in a hand too careful and too small to belong to any warden: H. Sorn dispatched. Recovery method complete. Awaiting terms.
"Sorn," Elara said, reading over his shoulder. "I haven't seen that name on any posted ledger."
Vhar folded the strip once and kept it. "House Talvern already told us that much. We just weren't supposed to read it before he got here."
Second bell rang somewhere behind them, out over the grain stores. No diplomat crossed the Academy's threshold to answer it. The silence told Vhar more than an official denial would have.