The herbalist's apprentice had been told never to touch the nightshade without gloves, and never to inhale the smoke when it burned. But the dyer who'd commissioned this batch had explained, with a patience that felt like kinship, that the poison was only dangerous if you respected it wrong. So Kess learned to respect it precisely. She learned to see the moment the leaf turned from toxic to pigment, the narrow window where death became beauty. When the final bolt came back from the dyer's hands, it showed every layer. The green was clear and alive. The rose beneath it seemed to pulse. A ranger had ordered it, one who'd lost a forest to the Cult of Absolute. She wore it to the Council when she testified, and even the Lords of Waterdeep felt the weight of what she'd seen. Kess never learned the ranger's name, but she saw the fabric on her shoulders and that was enough...