Anyone can join, with a 50-word vignette in the comments. Your vignette does not have to include the prompt term.
If she was noticed. In this upper room, it was unlikely. Even a soul as rambunctious as Edgar would be securely within, unable to see the light from the window. Manfred would be working with his papers in his own room. As for Fleurdelice, she would be abed, though sleepless.
So hard to notice anything in this ruin. She could see figures moving about at a distance too far to be the voice she heard, she could see fallen wall, she could see -- there, a shadow moving in the gap. Barely. She scowled. And looked harder, to make them out.
She forced her laughter back. "Exactly," she said. "Who cares what I think, or notice, or do?" She leaned forward. "Or do you?"
"No," said the rhymer. "Now we go." He turned and strode off, geometrically black and white with every step toward the gap.
She had seen no change.
The stairs went down. Far down. Some corner of his mind noted that the stone was the peach-shaded sandstone that so much of the city was built of, from days of old, and days more recent for those who could not import stone.
Who would import stone for a tunnel?
Noticing nothing, he still drew his own, and when his second, steady look at the scene still saw no peril, he stood there and held the blade as steadily as Dostin did.
Who swore. "If it would strike," said Dostin, "we would know. But we can not stand here forever."