Osric smelled void-oil before the first glove reached the manor's unfinished sill, where nine figures climbed and ward marks faded. He stood beside the breach bell with his crowbar across the upper corridor's doorway while their gloves erased painted warnings.
Midnight lay beyond the unglazed windows, long after the last carrying crews left.
Tallis quietly sorted manifests at the cluttered dispatch desk while Nera checked the household totals upon the ledger's facing page. Forty refugee children slept below them behind the guarded dormitory door, and none of them stirred yet at the scraping.
Osric lifted his crowbar away from the bell cord and sniffed toward the darkening sill.
"Burnt tallow and bad grease," he muttered, wrinkling his nose, "that's alchemy oil, and somebody's rubbing out our warning runes."
Tallis set her quill down without closing the unfinished ration entry, "Guardhouse?"
"No."
"I can get Hans if you hold the stair—"
