They made their move that night.
The tunnels were everything Roen had heard and worse—dark, wet, and thick with the smell
of old chemicals and older decay. The air was heavy, barely breathable, and the walls
pressed in from both sides like the throat of some great beast.
Kisara led the way with a small lantern, its light casting dancing shadows on the stone.
Mirelle followed, her breathing quick and shallow. Roen brought up the rear, one hand on his
knife, eyes straining against the darkness.
"How much farther?" Mirelle whispered.
"Quiet," Kisara murmured. "Sound carries."
They continued in silence, the only noise the soft splash of their footsteps in shallow water.
Roen counted turns, trying to build a map in his head. Left at the first junction. Straight past
the collapsed section. Right where the tunnels widened.
Finally, Kisara stopped. Above them, set into the ceiling, was an iron grate.
"Here," she said softly. "This is it."
Roen looked up. The grate was old, rusted in places, but still solid. Beyond it, wooden slats
and darkness. The garrison's cellar.
Kisara raised her hands, and Roen saw the threads again—gray and heavy, wrapping
around the bars of the grate. Pulling. Shaping. With a groan of stressed metal, the iron
began to bend, warping like soft clay under a sculptor's hands.
In minutes, there was a gap wide enough to squeeze through.
"Quickly," Kisara whispered. "I can only hold it for so long. The metal wants to remember its
shape."
Roen went first. He pulled himself up through the gap, his shoulders scraping against bent
iron. The cellar was low-ceilinged, filled with barrels and crates, dark and quiet. He helped
Mirelle up, then turned to help Kisara.
She shook her head.
"I'm not going. This is as far as my debt goes." She began backing down the tunnel, the
lantern still in her hand. "Good luck. You'll need it."
She was gone before Roen could argue. Behind him, the grate began to straighten itself, the
Iron Weaving fading, the metal returning to its original shape.
He and Mirelle were on their own.
"Now what?" Mirelle breathed.
Roen's eyes adjusted to the darkness. The cellar was larger than he'd expected, with several
doors leading off in different directions. He thought about the garrisons he'd seen, the
layouts he'd learned while running messages.
"Commander's office," he murmured. "Upper floor. Private space. That's where she'd keep
something important."
"And if she's there?"
"Then we're dead. So let's hope she's not."
They moved through the garrison like ghosts. The halls were dimly lit, with guards posted at
major intersections but absent from the smaller corridors. Roen counted soldiers as they
passed, mapping patrol patterns in his head. Four guards at the front entrance. Two at the
back. One on the stairs.
If they timed it right, they could make it to the second floor without being seen.
The commander's office was at the end of a quiet hallway, its door marked with a small
bronze plaque. Roen knelt and produced a thin piece of metal he'd kept hidden in his belt—a
lockpick, one of his most valuable possessions.
The lock was good. He was better.
The door opened without a sound.
The room inside was sparse. A desk covered in papers. A chair. A narrow bed for late nights.
A chest in the corner, iron-bound and locked.
Roen went straight for the chest while Mirelle watched the door. His fingers worked the lock,
faster this time, practice making perfect.
Click.
He opened the chest. Inside was the pouch, along with documents, maps, a small lockbox.
He grabbed the pouch, checked its weight. Still full. Still his payment.
"Got it," he breathed. "Let's go."
They made it to the stairs before everything went wrong.
The commander was coming up.
Roen froze. Mirelle pressed against the wall. There was nowhere to hide—the hallway was
empty, no doors, no furniture. Just the stairs and the commander, climbing toward them, her
face illuminated by the lamp she carried.
She saw them. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then narrowed.
"You."
"Commander." Roen's voice was steady, but his heart was racing. "We were just leaving."
"With my property." Her hand came up, and gold threads began to gather around her fingers.
"I warned you."
"You took it from me."
"It belongs to the Empire." She stepped forward, and the temperature in the hallway spiked.
"Hand it over, and I'll let you walk away. Again."
Roen's mind raced. He couldn't fight a Gold Weaver. He couldn't outrun one. But he could
think.
"What's in it?" he asked. "Must be important for the Empire to send a commander after it."
"That's not your concern."
"It's my concern when you drag me into it." He took a step back, buying time. "The woman
who gave it to me. Sable. She killed your soldier. Killed your friend. What did she take?"
The commander's face tightened. Pain, there and gone.
"Last chance," she said. "Hand it over."
"Run," Roen told Mirelle. "Now."