The fight that followed taught Roen several things.
First: thread-blind didn't mean helpless. It meant outmatched, outranged, and
outclassed—but not helpless. There was a difference, and that difference was the space
between living and dying.
Second: Mirelle was faster than he'd given her credit for. When Dessa's first strike came—a
bolt of flame that should have ended him right there—Mirelle was already moving. She
shoved Roen sideways so the fire passed through empty air, close enough that he felt the
heat singe his hair.
Third: dual-talent Weavers were absolute nightmares.
Dessa moved like water, flowing between offense and defense without pause. Her red
threads knit wounds closed as fast as Roen could inflict them. Her gold threads turned the
air itself into a weapon, superheating pockets of atmosphere until they exploded like invisible
landmines.
Roen rolled behind a fallen tree as another firebolt scorched the air where his head had
been. His knife felt pitifully small in his hand. The older man hadn't even joined the fight yet,
and the young man with the mule was hanging back, watching with wide eyes.
"You can't win!" Dessa called out. "Stop making this harder than it needs to be!"
He didn't answer. He was too busy thinking. The terrain was against them—flat ground with
minimal cover. The enemy had Weaving, training, and numbers. In a straight fight, they'd
lose.
So don't fight straight.
"Mirelle!" He caught her eye and made a gesture they'd developed years ago, running jobs
in Ashford. *Split up. Circle around. Meet at the rally point.*
She nodded once and vanished into the fog. Dessa noticed but didn't pursue, her focus
remaining on Roen. Probably figured one thread-blind street rat wasn't a threat worth
chasing.
She was about to learn otherwise.
Roen feinted left, then dove right, toward a cluster of dead trees. Dessa's response was
instant—a blade of compressed air slicing through the space he'd just vacated. Too fast. She
was too fast, too precise, too powerful.
But speed wasn't everything. Roen had grown up in Ashford, where every street was a
potential ambush and every shadow could hide a knife. He knew how to move in ways that
fighters trained in academies didn't. Low. Unconventional. Dirty.
He grabbed a handful of mud from the ground and threw it at her face. Not at her eyes—that
was too obvious. At her mouth. At her nose. Anywhere that would make her flinch, even for a
heartbeat.
She did. For half a second, her concentration broke.
Half a second was enough.
Roen closed the distance between them, not attacking but grabbing. His hands found her
sword belt and he pulled, using her own momentum against her. She stumbled, off-balance
for the first time since the fight began. He tried to wrench the sword free.
Her knee caught him in the ribs.
Pain exploded through his side—white-hot, blinding. He heard something crack, felt the
breath leave his lungs in a rush. He released the belt and staggered back, gasping.
"Clever," Dessa said. She was breathing harder now, a thin line of mud across her cheek.
"But not clever enough."
Her hand came up. Gold threads gathered between her fingers, building toward something
big. Roen braced himself for fire.
The arrow came out of nowhere.
It struck Dessa in the shoulder, spinning her around. The gold threads winked out as her
concentration shattered. Roen turned and saw Mirelle on a ridge behind them, a shortbow in
her hands, already nocking another arrow.
Where had she gotten a bow?
Later. Questions later.
"Run!" Mirelle shouted.
Roen ran. His ribs screamed with every step, his vision swimming at the edges. The older
man was moving now, finally joining the fight, but Roen was already past him, already diving
into the fog.
Behind him, he heard Dessa cursing, heard the hiss of more arrows, heard footsteps
pursuing. But the fog was thick, and he knew how to disappear. Ashford had taught him that
much.
He ran until his lungs burned and his legs gave out. He ran until the sounds of pursuit faded
into nothing. He ran until he literally couldn't run anymore, collapsing against the ruins of an
old stone wall.
The world spun. His vision darkened at the edges. For a long moment, he thought he might
pass out.
Then Mirelle was there, sliding down beside him, her face pale and worried.
"Lost them in the dead forest," she said between gasps. "They'll pick up the trail again, but
we bought time."
"The bow," Roen managed.
"Took it from the pack mule. Kid wasn't watching." She held up a quiver. "Eight arrows. Could
only carry so many."
Roen laughed, then immediately regretted it as his ribs screamed in protest.
"You stole from them. While they were fighting."
"They were distracted." Her voice was casual, but her eyes were serious as she looked at
his side. "You're hurt."
"Cracked rib. Maybe two." He touched his ribs gingerly, feeling the damage. "Had worse."
"Not the point." Mirelle pulled up his shirt, examining the bruise that was already spreading
across his skin like spilled ink. "This needs binding. Proper binding. And you need rest."
"No time. They'll find us."
"Then we move slowly and die faster." She was already tearing strips from her shirt. "Your
choice."
Roen sighed. Sat still. Let her work.