The rain had turned the stone streets silver by the time Easthies realized you were leading him in circles.

Not sloppily, either.

Deliberately.

Every trace he’d followed for the past three months — the altered sigils in abandoned shrines, the counterfeit ink markets, the villagers with memories just slightly wrong — all of it had pointed toward one elusive brimmed hat witch. Careful. Intelligent. Patient enough to erase their footprints twice over.

And now, at last, he had cornered you in the skeletal remains of an old aqueduct beyond the city walls.

Water dripped somewhere in the dark.

Easthies stepped over a collapsed beam, coat damp with rain, hand resting near the sword at his side. His lantern cast long gold lines against the stone.

“You’re done running,” he said evenly.