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“He’s responding.” His voice reveals nothing.

The next few minutes stretch into eternity. I finish my stew and pick at my bread, pretending casual interest while every nerve stands at attention. Unseen eyes watch us from somewhere in the crowded room, making my skin prickle with awareness. Sacha continues his adjustments to items on our table, each move slow, meant to be seen. A wordless conversation with someone I can’t see.

Then footsteps approach from behind. My muscles tense.

“Vashnak tem solavin.” A male voice speaks just above a whisper, close enough that I feel his breath stir the hair near my ear.

“Narash nul’tor,”Sacha replies.

The stranger moves into my field of vision. He's tall and lean, his face carved with deep lines like a landscape weathered by harsh seasons. He isn’t elderly, but someone who has lived most of his life outdoors. A faded scar cuts across his jawline, disappearing beneaththe collar of his simple tunic. Despite his unremarkable clothing, he carries himself with the quiet assurance of a blade kept in its sheath—dangerous, but controlled.

His eyes, sharp and assessing, study Sacha, trying to penetrate the shadows of his hood. There's something in his gaze that unsettles me, like he’s seconds away from violence.

“Kavirak et Thornevale solavin?” His voice rumbles deep in his chest, the words flowing with the musical cadence I'm beginning to recognize as characteristic of this language.

"He's asking if we've come from Thornevale," Sacha translates quietly for me before turning back to the man. “Navin. Sunfire neresh kavir.”

The stranger's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, surprise breaking through his careful composure.“Sunfire Dunes? Marishan lorath nevik?” His fingers tap once against our table, a gesture that seems casual but carries a deeper meaning. His eyes sweep the room in a pattern too systematic to be random before returning to Sacha. “Narivak et selurin kavir neresh?”

“He’s surprised we crossed the desert, and is asking our purpose in Ravencross.” He rests one hand palm-down on the table—another signal, I assume. “Narash selurin. Navirak et temresh kavir?”

The effect is immediate and electric. The man freezes completely, his hand suspended midway to the table. His eyes dart toward the Authority officials before snapping back to Sacha, something shifting behind his expression too fast for me to read. Recognition? Fear? I can't decipher what I'm seeing, only that something unexpected has just passed between them.

"What did you ask him?" I whisper, afraid to break whatever spell has fallen over them.

"If he fears the dark." Sacha's voice is so low I nearly miss it. "It's a test."

Only then do I understand. This isn't merely an information exchange. It's an identification ritual. Secret words passed between people who risk death for recognizing each other. I'm witnessing something few outsiders ever see.

The man leans in, his body angled to block our conversation from other tables.

“Telkavin naresh kavir solavin. Navirak et melvar selurin.” Though his posture appears relaxed, tension coils through him like a spring wound too tight. His hand drifts to his belt where the slight bulge beneath his cloak suggests a concealed weapon.

"He suggests we continue this conversation elsewhere," Sacha translates, his voice barely stirring the air between us. "He says it's not safe to speak openly here."

The stranger's eyes shift toward the Authority officials, tracking their movements with the wariness of prey monitoring predators. Or maybe he’s the predator. It’s hard to say.

“Navirak et kavir meresh solavin? Telkavin naresh tol’var.” Though his voice remains steady, urgency vibrates through each word.

“Narem kavir meresh,” Sacha replies with a slight nod.

The man's shoulders relax fractionally.

“Solavin kavir naresh. Telkavin meresh.”

He gestures toward the door with a movement so subtle it couldbe mistaken for brushing lint from his sleeve, then turns and weaves through the crowded room.

My throat tightens as I watch him disappear. “What happens now?”

“He wants us to follow him somewhere more secure.” Sacha's eyes remain on the door. “He says he has something I need to hear.”

“Can we trust him?” I don’t know this world, but I know people. I know how quickly they lie when they’re scared. Andhelooked scared.

Sacha’s eyes follow the man's retreating form, his gaze tracking every step like he’s remembering something he isn’t quite sure of.

“Thereissomething familiar about him,” he admits slowly. “But people change over time, and memories can be deceptive when viewed through the lens of necessity.”

I study his profile, wondering what it costs him to doubt connections from his past life. “Are we going to follow him?”