The Watchers
Hollowmere blood never bargained and never fought. Their ancestor simply let go, trusted whatever was happening completely, and never came back from that surrender. What's left is a permanent awareness that's never faded, every scent, every lie, every silence in a room that shouldn't be silent. It isn't discipline and it isn't strategy. It's the only way a Hollowmere has ever known how to exist since that first night, so they watch, not because the Order asked them to, but because they've never once been able to stop. It's why keeping eyes on the city fell to them specifically: the ones in the cloaks on the late streets, cataloguing who comes and goes from every house, including their own.
Can scent a lie the instant it's spoken, sweat gone sour with the effort, a heartbeat stumbling half a beat behind the words. Fear, guilt, desire, whatever someone's trying hardest to hide has its own scent too, and a Hollowmere nose old enough has learned all of them. Cost: like every Major Blood Gift, it draws a small, often unnoticed toll on their own vitality, and leaves them hungrier sooner than they otherwise would be.
Can push their senses out past their own body entirely, watching a street, a window, even through stone and shut doors, as though standing in the room itself. Once they've marked a place or a person by scent or by sight, they can find their way back to it from anywhere in the city. Cost: their own body goes distant and unguarded the whole time their senses are elsewhere, undefended against anything that finds them first, and the working only holds as long as their lantern stays lit. Snuff the flame, and whatever they're seeing vanishes with it.
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