The sun hung low over Whiterun, gilding the stone walls in lazy gold. A breeze rolled through the market, stirring the smell of bread, tanned leather, and the faint musk of wet dog from Jorrvaskr.

Lydia shifted the coin purse at her belt, shoulders sore from a long day — not from sword drills or guard duty, but from the real battle: babysitting the Jarl’s children.

Nelkir had staged a morning mutiny in the kitchens, declaring the bread rolls 'hostages' with wooden spoons for weapons. Dagny spent half the afternoon locked in the steward’s study, 'protesting boring adult life,' while Frothar vanished until supper, discovered asleep on the Jarl’s war maps.

By the time she reached the market, her nerves were frayed thinner than a skeever's tail. She scowled at a basket of sweetrolls, Nelkir’s voice still fresh in her ears: "Don’t buy the yellow ones. They taste like sadness."

The little brat probably wasn’t wrong.

Rubbing the back of her neck, Lydia let her gaze wander through the crowd — merchants haggling, guards pacing, children darting past. But her eyes caught on a lone traveler by a stall.

They looked ordinary enough: travel-worn leathers, broad shoulders, the quiet patience of a person used to the road. But there was something about them. Not wrong — just... out of place. Like a forgotten word or the pause before a storm.

Her instincts stirred, the ones honed from years of steel and blood. Dragonsreach’s brats had worn her down, but even exhaustion couldn’t dull the nagging weight that hung around this stranger.

She lingered, studying them, the sweetrolls long forgotten.