The second day began like the first—early, fog-veiled, and quiet.

Aston rose at dawn, slipping out of his modest room above the tanner's shop with movements practiced into silence. The mask of Narec Vale had grown easier to wear. Each blink and breath came more naturally, his gait subtly different, his voice slightly raspier than usual. Nova had calibrated his parameters down to microexpressions.

He didn't speak to anyone that day—only nodded when spoken to, bartered with precise coin, and carried an empty pouch over his shoulder to complete the illusion of a beast tamer returning from a failed contract run. The townsfolk grew more familiar with his presence—but not curious. Just another traveler. Another face in the mist.

His days revolved around subtle loops.

He would circle the central trade ring once in the morning, take a seat at the Glasshook Tavern's patio around midday, and visit the pottery lane before dusk. Nova fed him snippets of tagged paths and minor spirit auras as they emerged. Mirage tracked overhead under her Glass Cloak, while Gray—tucked inside a small cloth wrap on Aston's belt—scanned surface-level danger signals.

By mid-afternoon, Aston had identified at least two likely informants within the town: a blind herb-seller with a walking cane that tapped in unusual rhythms, and a man who appeared to be sharpening tools but hadn't sold a single blade in three days. Both passed too often near the storehouse—yet neither ever looked at it.

"False focus," Aston muttered beneath his breath. "The ones who guard don't guard with eyes."

[Observation consistent with passive veil tactics. Continue noninvasive tracking.]

He never approached the warehouse directly.

Instead, he logged every person who passed by it between sixth bell and twilight. Most were older. Two had spirit beasts that never manifested but left faint heat signatures in their wake.

The only consistent variable was a teenage girl who swept the alley each dusk.

Nova flagged her movement patterns.

[Sweep angle too wide. Likely surveillance sweep.]

That night, Aston didn't remove the Seraphis Shed until after midnight.

He sat in the dark, pressing his forehead to the cool wood of the window frame, and whispered, "One more day."

—

The third day came colder. Overcast. The fog hung heavier in the valley like a curtain half-pulled. Aston dressed slower that morning—mind rehearsing not just his cover story, but his posture, his scent profile, his micro-movements. The mask didn't just change what others saw—it amplified what he let them see.

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At noon, he returned to the tavern as Narec, ordered a bland broth, and made a show of asking the innkeeper about a 'missing companion' who'd left days ago. It was a false breadcrumb—subtle, easy to forget.

By evening, Nova pinged softly.

[Energy fluctuation detected: southern approach, standard pattern disrupted.]

Aston raised his gaze from his half-finished meal.

A woman had entered the tavern—dark cloak, wide-brimmed hat, gloves too fine for her clothes. She sat at the bar but never looked at him.

The bartender poured her something strong without being asked.

She sipped once, then muttered, "Ghosts don't sleep."

A beat.

Then she added, barely audible, "But they remember those who did."

Aston stood casually, stretched, and walked out the side door.

He didn't glance back. He didn't speak.

Fifteen seconds later, her footsteps echoed behind him.

They didn't walk together—just near.

Past the plaza.

Past the vine-covered shrine.

Into the broken alcove beside the collapsed bridge.

There, she stopped.

"You're early," she said, still not looking at him.

Aston didn't correct her. He didn't confirm or deny.

She turned slightly.

"Where's your mark?" she asked.

"I haven't tagged them yet."

Her eyes finally met his. Dark. Hard.

"You're not local."

"No," he said, voice measured. "But I see well."

A pause.

Then she reached into her cloak and handed him a tube with a rolled parchment sealed with wax that shimmered faintly.

"You have until dawn. After that, this place gets loud."

He took the tube. "Understood."

She looked at him once more, as if gauging something unseen.

Then said, "You're not what I expected."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Aston's borrowed lips. "Neither are you."

She walked away.

Aston stood there, tube in hand, the mist curling at his feet like smoke.

Nova blinked.

[Primary contact established. Awaiting further directive.]

"Nova," he whispered, "verify seal integrity."

[Verified. No tracking glyphs. No scrying residue.]

"Good." He tucked the tube away.

The real task would begin before dawn.

And this time, there would be no room for watching from the shadows.

He would have to move through them.

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