Roen stared at her.
"The Severed Lands?"
"The dead zone. Where the Weave doesn't work." Mirelle leaned forward, her eyes bright
with something that might have been desperation or inspiration. "Dessa is a Weaver. A
powerful one. Without the Weave, she's just a woman with a sword. We'd have a chance."
"Everyone who goes into the Severed Lands dies."
"Not everyone. I've heard stories. Scavengers who go in looking for artifacts from the
Thread-Wars. Some come back."
"Some. Not most." Roen had heard the same stories. The Severed Lands were a scar on the
world—a place where the Weave had been so badly damaged that magic simply didn't
function. But they were also filled with horrors: remnants of ancient battles, twisted
creatures, and worse. "It's suicide."
"So is fighting Dessa." Mirelle's eyes were steady. "At least this way, we choose the
battlefield."
She wasn't wrong. Roen hated that she wasn't wrong.
"We'd need a guide," he said slowly. "Someone who knows the territory."
"Brea might know someone."
"She might. Or she might throw us out for asking."
"Only one way to find out."
Roen sighed. His ribs ached. His head hurt. And now he was considering walking into the
most dangerous place in Aeterra with nothing but a cracked knife and a street rat's luck.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We ask tomorrow."
He slept. Or tried to. The bed was soft, the room warm, but his mind wouldn't quiet. Every
time he closed his eyes, he saw Dessa's face. The threads around her hands. The way
she'd smiled when she'd said *I was hoping you'd be smart.*
She'd enjoyed it. The fight. The chase. The hunt. Dessa Keth wasn't just a mercenary. She
was a predator.
And Roen was prey.
He touched the pouch beneath his pillow. The crystal sphere was cool against his fingers,
pulsing with something that might have been power or might have been imagination. He still
had no idea what it was. But someone wanted it badly enough to kill for.
Morning came too fast.
Roen woke to shouting. He was on his feet before his mind caught up, knife in hand, heart
pounding. The room was dim, gray light filtering through a crack in the shutters.
Outside, voices. Angry. Urgent.
"Mirelle."
She was already up, bow in hand, quiver at her hip. "Someone's here. Riders. I count four,
maybe five."
Dessa. It had to be. Roen grabbed his pack, shoving the pouch with the sphere inside. His
ribs screamed as he moved, but he pushed through the pain.
"Back door. Now."
They moved through the tavern's kitchen, past a cook who didn't even look up, and out into a
narrow alley. The village was waking up around them, people emerging from homes to see
what the commotion was about. Roen kept his head down, moving quickly but not running.
Running drew attention.
They were almost to the side gate when Brea stepped into their path.
"Going somewhere?"
"You said we had until tomorrow."
"That was before." Her face was grim. "Imperial soldiers. Five of them. Asking about a
thread-blind boy and a red-haired girl. They showed sketches." She looked at Roen. "You're
in deeper than mercenaries."
"Imperial?" Roen's stomach dropped. "Not Dessa?"
"Not Dessa. Soldiers in crimson. Official." Brea's voice was hard. "What did you do, boy?"
"I stole something. From a commander." He didn't have time for the full story. "Is there
another way out?"
"The sewers. But they'll have guards at the exits." She studied him for a long moment.
"There's another option. A man who lives outside the village. Name's Verant. He guides
people through the Severed Lands."
"You know someone."
"I know everyone. It's my job." She stepped aside. "North road, half a mile. Look for the
stone house with the red door. And boy?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't come back."