Sirena counted the dusks since the shadow began falling wrong. Six. On the seventh, she stood at her window in Wingarden and watched the light bend around the palace across her street, the one with three towers she had memorized as a child. The west tower should have laid its shadow flat against the cobbles by the time the bells rang. Tonight the shadow leaned the wrong way again, dragging east, stretching toward her door. She had read every page written about the Moonlit Court, the judges who watched the city from the highest spires, and she meant to sit among them one day, no matter who had told her she couldn't. Reading light was how she would prove it. Reading light was also how she knew something was very wrong below her window. She went down with the slim wand the woman who taught her had left behind. It glowed faintly at the crescent head, and its tip trailed a thin shadow she could lay against other shadows to measure them. Her teacher was gone. The habit was not. Sirena knelt at the curb and pressed the wand flat to the stone where the tower's shadow should have ended. It ended four hand-widths short. Something east of the palace was pulling the light. She turned and saw it: a merchant's cart parked at the corner, heaped with bottles and lanterns and cloth from places she could not name. The cart itself sat in ordinary light. Its shadow did not. Its shadow took the shape of a tall, thin figure with its arm reaching toward her house. The bells rang. The figure-shadow slid one cobble closer. Sirena understood then what her teacher had warned her about without ever saying it plainly: some shadows were not cast by what stood in the light. Some were cast by what waited inside it. She had hours, maybe less. She drew the wand's tip along the cobbles and traced the figure-shadow's outline before it moved again, marking each joint, each finger, the angle of the reaching arm. She copied the pattern onto the back of a page torn from one of her Court books. If she could name the shape, she could name what wore it. The figure-shadow took another step while she drew. Sirena did not run. She finished the last line, rolled the page, and walked straight to the cart. The merchant was not there. The lanterns burned steady. She held the wand against the cart's wheel and watched the figure-shadow stop, then thin, then fold back into the ordinary dark beneath the axle. It did not vanish. It waited. Sirena tucked the drawing into her sleeve. Whatever lived in that cart had seen her now, and it knew she could see it back. Tomorrow at dusk, she would not be the one watching from a window.