"Move," Roen breathed. "Don't run. Just move."
He grabbed Mirelle's arm and pulled her into the flow of foot traffic, trying to look casual. The
soldiers were stopping people, showing them something—probably a description of Sable.
But if anyone had seen Roen talking to her, if anyone had been paying attention...
"Excuse me."
Roen's stomach dropped. He turned slowly. One of the soldiers was looking at him. Not
accusing, not yet. Just curious. Young, too—probably not much older than Roen himself,
with a face that hadn't yet hardened to the work.
"You live here?" The soldier's uniform was pristine, his sword polished. New to the posting,
probably. Still believing in the Empire's cause.
"Born and raised," Roen said. "Can I help you?"
"We're looking for a woman. Dark skin, dark eyes, ragged coat. She killed one of ours this
morning. Did you see anything?"
Roen's heart was a bird in his chest. He could feel the pouch against his ribs, the weight of
evidence. He could feel Mirelle tense beside him. One wrong word and they'd be dragged in
for questioning. And Imperial questioning was thorough.
"I saw the fight," he said carefully. "Hard to miss. But I didn't see where she went after. There
was a lot of... confusion."
"But you saw her face."
"For a moment." Roen kept his expression neutral, helpful, harmless. Just another citizen
trying to assist. "Before everyone started running."
The soldier nodded. "Come with us. Our commander wants to speak with anyone who saw
anything."
"Now?"
"Now." The soldier's hand moved to Roen's shoulder, not quite grabbing but making it clear
this wasn't optional. "Don't worry. You'll be free to go once we've taken your statement."
Roen glanced at Mirelle. Her eyes were wide, but she gave a tiny nod. Go along. Don't
resist. Find an opening.
"Of course," he said, forcing a smile. "Happy to help."
The soldiers led him through the market toward the Imperial garrison, a squat stone building
near the town's main gate. Roen counted soldiers as they walked, mapping positions,
looking for weaknesses. Four guards at the front. Two at the back. One on the stairs.
Inside, the garrison was cold and damp. They took him to a small room with a table and two
chairs. The young soldier stayed while the others left.
"Wait here. The commander will be with you shortly."
Then he was alone. Or as alone as he could be in a room with one door, no windows, and
probably guards outside. He tested the door anyway. Locked. He checked the walls for
weaknesses. Stone, solid. The ceiling was too high to reach. The table was bolted down.
"Sit tight," he muttered to himself. "They just want a statement."
But his gut told him otherwise. He'd been around long enough to know when someone was
looking at him as a witness versus looking at him as a suspect. The young soldier had been
too polite. Too careful. They weren't just asking questions. They were fishing.
The door opened. The commander walked in.
She was perhaps forty, with iron-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her uniform was
covered in campaign ribbons, and the way she moved spoke of decades of combat
experience. But what caught Roen's attention was the shimmer around her hands.
Gold threads, faint but visible, even to his thread-blind eyes.
She was a Weaver. A powerful one.
"Sit," she said, taking the chair across from him.
Roen sat.
"I'm Commander Thessa Vald. I run this garrison. The man killed today was my
subordinate." She leaned forward. "He was also a friend. I want to find the woman who killed
him. You're going to help me."
"I told your soldier, I didn't see where she went—"
"You spoke to her." The commander's voice was flat. Final. "After the fight. You walked up to
her. She gave you something."
Roen's throat went dry.
"I don't know what you're—"
"Don't." A single word, but weighted with decades of authority. "I've been doing this for
twenty years. I can see a lie before it leaves your tongue. You spoke to the woman. She
gave you something. What was it?"
Roen weighed his options. Lie and get caught. Tell the truth and lose the payment. Maybe
get charged as an accomplice.
Or... something in between.
"She gave me a job," he said. "Delivery. That's all. I don't know what's in the package. I don't
know who she is. She just needed someone to carry something north."
"North." The commander's eyes narrowed. "To where?"
"Pale Mountain monastery."
Something flickered across the commander's face. Surprise? Recognition? It was gone
before Roen could read it.
"What's in the package?"
"I told you, I don't know. She said not to open it."
"But you have it."
"It's... hidden."
"Where?"
Roen hesitated. If he gave up the package, he lost his payment. But if he didn't, the
commander could have him searched. Or worse—she could use her Weaving to extract the
information. Gold Weavers could do things like that. Burn the truth out of a person.
"My boot," he said. "Left side."
The commander stood and walked to the door. "Bring the boot."
A guard entered and removed Roen's boot. A moment later, the pouch was on the table. The
commander picked it up, weighing it.
"This is what she was fighting for. What she killed for." She looked at Roen. "Do you know
what this is?"
"No."
"I believe you." She tucked the pouch into her belt. "You're free to go."
Roen blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. You're thread-blind. A street rat. You didn't know what you were carrying.
You were just a convenient fool." The commander's voice was dismissive now. "Go back to
your life. Forget this happened."
Roen stood slowly. His boot was returned, the remaining coins gone. He should have felt
relieved. He was being released. He was alive.
But all he could think about was the pouch. The payment he'd been promised. The deal he'd
made with a woman who killed Imperial soldiers and bent probability.
"What about the package?" he asked. "The woman said she'd find me. Said I had to deliver
it."
"Let her try." The commander's smile was thin and cold. "Now get out."