The back room was small and warm, heated by a crackling fire.
Roen sank into a chair with a groan. The last two days had been a blur of pain and
exhaustion, every step a reminder of his limitations. He was thread-blind in a world of
Weavers. He was carrying something powerful enough to kill for. And he was hurt, badly, in
the middle of nowhere.
"We should keep moving," Mirelle said, but her voice lacked conviction. She was tired too.
They both were.
"We will. After."
The heavyset woman returned with bread, cheese, and a pot of something that smelled like
stew. Behind her came another woman—older, with silver hair and the weathered hands of
someone who'd spent a lifetime working with herbs.
"This is Marta," the innkeeper said. "She knows bodies."
"Let me see." Marta's voice was clipped, professional. She pulled up Roen's shirt without
asking, probing the bruise with fingers that were surprisingly gentle. "Two ribs cracked. Not
broken, but close. You've been walking on this?"
"Didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice. You chose poorly." She produced a jar of pungent salve from her
bag. "This will help with the pain. But you need rest. Real rest. Days of it, not hours."
"We don't have days."
"Then you don't heal. Your choice." She began applying the salve, and Roen had to clench
his jaw to keep from crying out. It burned at first, then settled into a warm numbness. The
pain didn't disappear, but it receded—becoming something he could ignore.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Thank Brea. She's the one who'll tell you the price." Marta wrapped fresh
bandages around his torso. "Twelve hours. Minimum. Rest, eat, sleep. After that, I can't
promise anything."
She left. Brea stayed, arms crossed, watching them eat.
"You're running from someone," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Does it matter?"
"It might. Depends on who." She sat across from them. "Thornwick is small. We don't have
much. But what we have, we protect. You bring trouble here, that's on you. But I won't turn
away people who need help."
Roen considered lying. But something in Brea's eyes told him she'd know.
"Mercenaries," he said. "A woman named Dessa. And two others."
Brea's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "Dessa Keth. Blade. I
know her."
"You do?"
"Passed through here a year ago. Hired on with a merchant caravan heading south. Good
money, she said. Quick job." Brea's voice was flat. "Caravan never made it. Dessa came
back alone. Said bandits hit them."
"You don't believe her."
"I believe she's dangerous. And I believe she doesn't leave witnesses." Brea stood. "Stay the
night. Rest. But tomorrow, you go. And if Dessa comes asking, I never saw you."
"Fair enough."
She left them alone. Roen ate mechanically, his mind racing. Dessa was worse than he'd
thought—a mercenary who killed her own employers. And she was still coming.
"We need to move faster," he said. "Find a shortcut. Something."
"You heard Marta. You push, you die."
"I push, maybe I die. Dessa catches us, we both die." He set down his spoon. "I need
options, Mirelle. Not lectures."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said something that made his blood run cold.
"The Severed Lands."