The stars were still out when Lexel's ears perked.
He had been close to sleep — not fully there, the specific half-state of someone whose body had decided rest was adequate while the mind retained a background awareness that had never fully learned to switch off. The rooftop. The capital below. Lulu somewhere beside him, quiet in the way she was quiet when she was processing rather than observing.
The sound was small. Steel against something. The specific bump of a tool making contact in a space where tools lived.
He opened his eyes.
Looked at the sky. At the stars. At the direction of the sound — the smithing room, the outbuilding at the east end of the mansion's property, separate from the main structure, the dedicated workspace that Halveth had offered and Anthierin had accepted with the deflecting humor of someone uncomfortable with generosity.
The window of it was lit.
Orange.
