"Who broke the glass, Morag? Was it you, or the dead man?"

The question hung in the brine-thick air of the counting room, where the tally sticks lay notched to the hilt, a forest of debt waiting to be paid. Morag Toshach stood by the window, her uniform damp from the harvest rain that slicked the terraces of Skye, and watched the light fail on the water below. She was a watchman, a woman who carried the weight of the city’s peace on her shoulders, and now she carried the weight of a murder charge that no one believed was true. The prejudice against women in uniform was a wall she could not climb, a barrier of stone and silence that kept the truth locked away. She needed the true killer before the dawn patrol, before the city woke to the news that a woman had killed a merchant in his own bed.

The scribe, a nervous man named Ewan, sat at the desk, his hands trembling as he wrote. He had confessed to seeing a shadow near the victim, a dark shape moving in the dark. But his eyes, darting around the room, revealed the lie. He was protecting his own debt, a debt that bound him to the family name, a name that Morag knew better than anyone. It was her brother, Hamish, who had been hiding the true culprit to save their family’s reputation. The obsidian mirror in her quarters, cracked and dark, showed her dead father’s face when she lied, a ghost that watched her every move, a reminder that the dead do not rest easy when the living lie.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​​​​‍‌⁠⁠​⁠‍​‌⁠‍

Hamish came to her quarters that night, his face pale, his eyes red. He tried to silence her, to shatter the mirror, to break the trust that held them together. He swung his arm, and the glass exploded into shards, a sound like a bone breaking. Morag watched the pieces fall, each one reflecting a different part of her face, a face that was no longer hers. The betrayal broke something in her, a shift from exoneration to exposure, from protecting the family to destroying it. She abandoned her plan, her goal now clear: to expose the corruption within her own bloodline, to show the city what it had become. He remembered, too, eighty-four of Stonecutter Alley — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

She used her knowledge of the city’s drainage tunnels, the dark veins that ran beneath the streets, to track Hamish’s movements. The water was cold, the air stale, and the silence was heavy with the weight of secrets. She found him selling the victim’s stolen goods to a high-ranking magistrate, a man whose name was spoken with reverence, a man who was complicit in the crime. The justice system itself was rotten, a house built on sand, and her initial belief in the law was a self-deception, a lie she had told herself to keep going.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​​​​‍‌⁠⁠​⁠‍​‌⁠‍

In the magistrate’s study, the air was heavy with ink and old paper. Morag did not attack him; she did not need to. She held up the cracked mirror, and the glass reflected his face, twisted in fear, a mask of cowardice. He confessed, his voice shaking, his hands clasped in prayer, to save his own skin. The evidence was secured, but the cost was Hamish’s freedom, a price too high to pay.

The brother was arrested, his chains clinking against the stone floor, his eyes meeting hers one last time. Morag watched him being dragged away, realizing that her desire for justice had destroyed the only family she had left. The tragic irony was clear: the truth had a price, and she had paid it in blood. The city slept, unaware of the storm that had passed, unaware of the woman who had walked through the fire and come out on the other side. He remembered, too, the Yarrowfield whalebone shuttle — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​​​​‍‌⁠⁠​⁠‍​‌⁠‍

In the final hours before the trial, Morag sat in the empty watchtower, holding the shards of the obsidian mirror. The weight of her actions pressed down on her, a physical thing, a stone in her chest. The city slept, the lights dimming, the sounds fading into the dark. She knew that her victory had left her alone, that the justice she sought had come at the expense of her humanity. The mirror shards caught the last of the light, a flicker of gold in the dark, a promise of what was to come.

As dawn broke, the sky turned a pale grey, the first light touching the water. Morag placed the mirror shards into a small box, a wooden thing, rough and worn. She locked it away, a final act of closure, a goodbye to the past. She put on her uniform, the fabric stiff and cold, and walked out into the morning. The air was crisp, the sun rising over the terraces, the city waking to a new day. She was ready to face the trial, ready to face the consequences of her choices, a woman who had sacrificed everything for the truth, a hero in a world that did not want heroes.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​​​​‍‌⁠⁠​⁠‍​‌⁠‍

The phone rang in the empty flat, a sound that cut through the silence, a reminder of the world she had left behind. She did not answer it. She walked on, her steps steady, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The field that flooded on purpose lay in the distance, the water reflecting the sky, a mirror of its own, a reminder of the things that could not be controlled. She was Morag Toshach, a watchman, a woman who had seen the truth and paid for it, a woman who would not look back. The last look was not at the city, but at the box in her hand, a small thing, heavy with meaning, a key to a door that would never be opened again. She walked into the light, the grey morning stretching out before her, a blank page, a new story, a life that was hers alone.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​​​​‍‌⁠⁠​⁠‍​‌⁠‍