I build the day carefully.
Not rushed. Not tense. Just ordinary.
I wake before dawn and lie still for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of the packhouse settling from night into morning, and I let my breathing match that rhythm until nothing in me feels sharp or urgent. Layla stays quiet beneath my ribs, coiled but patient, and I roll out of bed like I have every day since the council fractured.
I shower.
Long enough to feel believable. Not long enough to draw notice.
Water runs hot down my spine while I wash my hair and scrub my skin, letting the steam fog the mirror until my reflection blurs into something indistinct. When I brush my teeth, I do it with steady pressure, not too hard, not too fast, and I braid my hair tight, fingers practiced and precise.
Breakfast comes next
