Flick Ironhold pulled his sleeve down hard over his wrist and watched the tidy cottage across the way. A curtain twitched. The neighbor had seen the ink crawl last night, and by sunrise she would talk. He needed her quiet, and he needed the magic on his skin to stop moving without him. He crossed to the stone well at the center of the lane and pretended to draw water. Wardens patrolled here for the well, not for him, not yet. The metal bucket clanked against the chain. Tiny winged sprites darted around the rim, sipping at the spilled drops, their bright hair catching the early light. The cottage door opened. The woman stepped out with a basket, mouth already set to call to a passing guard down the lane. Flick's pulse jumped. The vine inked along his forearm twitched, eager. He clamped his other hand over it and forced a smile instead. He walked to her, coins ready, voice low. He offered every copper he had left and a promise to be gone by nightfall. She took the money. She closed her door. Flick stood by the well with empty pockets and a tattoo still squirming under his sleeve, and he knew he had bought hours, not safety. By dark, he had to leave the only room he could afford.