The thief left the safe open and empty, and Kita stood staring at the hole where her family's proof had lived. The pendant was gone. That coin of old gold was the only thing that tied her blood to a noble house the histories had erased. Without it, she was just a brown-skinned girl renting a cramped room. With it, she could stand before a magistrate and demand her name back. Now she had nothing but an empty box and a broken lock. She knelt and searched the floor. No footprints. No dropped tool. The thief had known exactly where to look and had left before dawn. Kita pressed her palms to her eyes. Any guess she made now could send her running the wrong way for weeks. She needed a real thread, not a hunch. Then she smelled it. Smoke, sweet and green, drifting through the open window. In the small yard below grew a tall leafy plant with slender serrated leaves and layered stems. Her landlord tended it every morning. He had been outside since first light. She took the stairs two at a time. The old man crouched by the plant, trimming a branch, humming to himself. "Someone robbed my room," Kita said. "You've been out here. Who came through the gate?" He did not look up. "A man. Before the birds. Tall. He had a fine machine." "A machine?" The landlord pointed his blade toward the lane. "Low and silver. Sharp lights, like knives. Sat there rumbling while he went in. Cars like that don't belong here." A sleek silver coupe. Kita's chest tightened. Only a few people in the city owned such a car. That narrowed a whole kingdom down to a handful of names. "Did you see the driver's face?" "No. But he dropped this climbing out." The old man dug in his apron and held up a torn scrap of paper. Kita took it. A crest was stamped in the corner, red wax pressed into a shape she had seen only once, in her grandmother's stories. A hawk over a broken crown. The house that had erased hers. Her hands shook. She had spent months chasing whispers, unsure where to even begin. Now the answer sat plain in her palm. The people who stole her heirloom were the same people who had buried her family's name. They had not forgotten her. They had come to make sure she stayed forgotten. Kita folded the scrap and pushed it into her pocket. She thanked the landlord and left him to his plant. She knew who took it now. That was worse than not knowing. Because to get it back, she would have to walk straight into the house that wanted her gone, in a city where a girl like her had no allies and no proof anyone would believe.