Scoundrel

They move when candles gutter, footsteps lighter than breath. A Scoundrel slips past guards in silk-lamed halls, a Hollowbone feathered sprite with eyes like chipped moonstone. Cloaked in silk shadows, taloned fingers clutch scrolls stolen from council desks, messages pried from tight lips.   They cry mimicked laughter in banquet halls, dip into dusk through vent shafts, vanish with truths no court dare speak aloud. To the Manastrife Union, information is their weapon, secrecy their sanctuary. Every word stolen, every rumour sown, echoes in tapestries and parchment until power shifts quietly—always just beyond the light.