Every instinct screamed at Roen to bolt.
He should run. Disappear into the twisting alleys of Ashford. Lose himself in the warren of
tenements and shops where a person could vanish like water into sand. That was what
survival looked like. That was what smart looked like.
But he'd also just watched this woman redirect fire with probability. There was nowhere he
could run that she couldn't make him trip, fall, break his neck on a "lucky" stone. Nowhere to
hide that she couldn't make someone glance in the right direction at the wrong time.
Fate-Weavers didn't chase. They didn't need to. The universe did their work for them.
"Stay here," he told Mirelle quietly. "If this goes wrong, don't look back."
"Roen—"
"Stay."
He pulled free of her grip and walked toward the woman. Past the body. Past the blood
pooling on cobblestones, still warm, still spreading. Past the scattering crowd and the wailing
child and the merchant who was already trying to salvage his overturned cart.
The woman watched him approach with an expression he couldn't read. Amusement?
Interest? Calculation? All three?
"Closer," she said. "I don't bite."
"You stab," he replied. "I saw."
She laughed, a short, sharp sound. "I do. But only people who deserve it. Or people in my
way." She tilted her head, studying him like a merchant might study a horse. "You're
thread-blind. Completely. I can see it in you. Not a spark of the Sight. Not even a glimmer."
"Lucky me."
"Lucky indeed." Her eyes narrowed. "Most people would have run. You walked toward me.
Why?"
Roen considered lying. He was good at lying. But something told him this woman would see
through it. Fate-Weavers had a way of knowing things they shouldn't.
"Figured if you wanted me dead, I'd be dead. The running would just make it take longer."
"Smart." She sheathed her knife. "And honest. I like that." She glanced past him to where
Mirelle stood frozen at the square's edge. "You owe money. A lot of it. I can see it in the
threads around you. Debts are bonds, and bonds are threads. Yours are tight."
Roen said nothing. There was no point denying it.
"Fifty crowns," he admitted finally. "By sundown."
"That's convenient." The woman's smile widened. "I need something carried. Something
valuable. Something that can't be traced to me." She held up the pouch she'd taken from the
dead soldier. "Fifty crowns to take this to the Pale Mountain monastery. The monks there will
know what to do with it."
The Pale Mountains. Three weeks north, through territory controlled by bandits, monsters,
and things worse than both. Roen had heard stories—travelers who never returned, villages
that simply disappeared, roads that led nowhere.
"That's a long way," he said carefully.
"That's why I'm paying fifty crowns." She pressed the pouch into his hands. "Half now. Half
when you deliver it. And before you ask, no, you can't open it. The contents are... particular.
If you try, they'll know. And you won't like what happens next."
The pouch was heavier than it looked. Roen weighed it in his palm, feeling the clink of coins
through the leather. Enough to pay off Gravel-Tooth. Enough to survive.
All he had to do was carry a mystery package to a monastery in the most dangerous region
of Aeterra.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Sable." She was already backing away, melting into the scattering crowd with the same
liquid grace she'd shown in combat. "But you won't need to find me. I'll find you. I always do."
Then she was gone.
Roen stood in the middle of the town square with a dead Imperial soldier at his feet, a pouch
of secrets in his hand, and the sinking feeling that his day had just gotten much, much
worse.
Behind him, Mirelle appeared at his elbow. "What did she give you?"
"A job." He tucked the pouch into his shirt, feeling the weight of it against his ribs. "Delivery.
North."
"North where?"
"Pale Mountain monastery."
Mirelle's face went pale. "That's—"
"Three weeks through the Moors. I know." Roen was already moving, walking fast, putting
distance between himself and the body. "We need to move. Imperial soldiers are going to
swarm this place."
"We?"
He stopped. Turned to look at her. "Mirelle. This isn't your problem. I got myself into this—"
"You got yourself into debt with Gravel-Tooth. You got yourself threatened by thugs. You got
yourself noticed by a Fate-Weaver." She crossed her arms. "And every time, I've helped.
Every time, you've needed someone watching your back." Her chin lifted. "You're not going
alone."
Roen opened his mouth to argue. Closed it. She wasn't wrong. He did need someone
watching his back. He always had. It was just easier to pretend otherwise.
"Fine," he said. "But you follow my lead. No heroics."
"No heroics," she agreed. "So what's the plan?"
Roen glanced back at the square, where people were starting to gather again, pointing and
murmuring. The body was still there. Soon, very soon, the Empire would respond.
"Plan," he said, "is we move fast. I pay Gravel-Tooth, we grab supplies, and we're out of
Ashford before anyone connects us to this."
It was a good plan. Simple. Direct.
It lasted exactly as long as it took for the first crimson-uniformed soldiers to appear at the
square's entrance.