"Hollow," I whispered, and the bird slid up to the beam. "Mark." The little skull clicked once and dropped a pinch of pale powder that wasn't powder at all—moth scale and chalk. It dusted the hooded figure's shoulder as he slipped under the ladder and sprinted for the far grate stair.

He cleared three rungs before a watchman grabbed his ankle and got kicked for the trouble. The hooded man flew up, shoved the wedge, and the grate went with him, clanging in the night. Gone.

"Top?" the captain barked.

"Go," Cael said. Two watchmen pounded back toward the mouth to ring the street bell and circle above. The rest of us held the room. I kept my back to the wall, eyes on corners.

We searched the two we had. Both had the same resin smear on their sleeves and the same leather badge ring sewn inside the cuff. No crest. The inner face of each ring had a tiny notch cut at the same angle. A code. Elara drew it neat on her paper.

The ladder man tried a laugh that didn't fit his mouth. "We're just workers," he said. "Lost our way."

"Workers don't cut wardlines," the captain said. He tapped the resin. "Workers don't wear silence wax."

"We patch leaks," the man said. "Wax is wax."

"Who pays you?" Cael asked, tone level.

The man looked at me instead. "Donors," he said. "Same as you."

"Names," the captain said.

He smiled wider. "Sponsor names? Write to the Foundation. They love letters."

I didn't like that word in his mouth. Foundation.

"Take them," the captain told his men. "Bag their cuffs. Don't smear the resin."

He looked at me. "We'll try to catch the runner above. If we miss him, we still have these two and their toys."

"Elara," I said. "Check the bench."

She was already there. Under the broken top, she found a satchel with cut ward pins, a short coil of darkened rope, and a jar half-full of iron-pine resin. She also found something that wasn't tool work: a stamped chit from the North Quarter contractors' guild. One corner clipped. Payment token.

She held it up. "Ledger trail," she said.

"Good," the captain said. "We can pull that string."

I stepped to the ladder and looked up at the night square. The grate sat crooked. People would have heard the clang. We'd have a small crowd and then a bigger one. That was how cities worked.

The powder I'd marked the runner with would glow faint in Lantern-light for an hour and show on cloth for a day if you knew to look. The watch could sweep the alleys and find a sleeve that told on itself.

"Can you run the alleys?" the captain asked me.

"I can," I said, "but you don't want me chasing shadows. I'm better here. I'll read what they left."

He grunted approval. "Good. Most academy boys want the sprint. You're not most."

"I'm old," I said. He barked a laugh.

We did a clean search of the junction. The exit the runner had used had marks on the wall: two dots, a line, two dots. Same as the knot code. A path marker. Someone had drawn a map under the city with chalk and string. Someone with time and money.

Cael crouched by the cut wardline and touched the chipped edge. "Not sloppy," he said. "Care. Patience. The kind that gets hired, not volunteered."

"Foundation," I said again, low.

He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

We hauled the two men out with their hands bound and their sleeves bagged. The night had gathered a few sleepy neighbors and one man in a dark coat with clerk's hands who looked like he wanted to be invisible. Seraphine wasn't there. Good. She didn't need this image.

The watch team that had circled above came back with a report and a scrap of fabric: gray cloth dusted pale on the shoulder. My dust. The runner had cut through the cooper's lane and into the north alleys. They'd lost him after a cart piled high with barrels, but at least the mark worked.

The captain logged it with a stub of chalk on his slate. "We'll sweep dawn," he said. He looked at me again. "Thank you."

"Use the powder light," I said, showing the Lantern's soft glow. "It will show on walls where he brushed. Elbows. Shoulders."

"We'll try it," he said.

We returned by the south lane with the prisoners and the satchel. Pierce waited at the gate with two proctors and a ledger. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.

"Report," he said.

The captain gave it clean: grate, wax, resin, two in hand, one on the run, tools, chit. Pierce wrote fast. When he finished, he turned to me. "You restrained with flat and post?"

"Flat and post," I said. "No puncture. No choke."

He nodded. "Good. Go sleep."

Cael clapped my shoulder once. "Ravine at first bell," he said. "Try not to be interesting before then."

"I'll aim for dull," I said.

Elara lifted the chit. "I'll flag Liora and Mira for the ledger pull. If the guild stamps match, we have a path."

"Do it," I said.

We split at the quad. The lamps hummed. The token on my collar felt heavier again, the right kind of heavy. I tucked the Lantern back into its clasp and stood for a moment under the empty sky.

Two men caught. One fled. Resin in a jar. A clipped chit. A word I hated on someone else's tongue.

Foundation.

I headed for my room and wrote the log while the details were still clean:

— Lantern: junction search, 00:18. No ward trip.

— Marrow: restraint assist, 00:07. No puncture.

— Hollow: mark on fleeing target, single drop. Visible under soft light, likely one hour.

I set down the pen, stretched my hands, and let myself think of home for a breath: Max's dinosaur on my chest, Nora's careful braids, Lila's blue sweater. Warm kitchen light. The sound of rain on a cheap window. It hurt. It was good that it hurt. It meant I still remembered why not to break things when scared.