Pain came first.
Not sharp. Not sudden. It didn't wake her. It waited.
By the time Chivy opened her eyes, it was already there, settled deep, woven through muscle and bone, patient as something that knew it had nowhere to go.
She didn't move.
That was the first decision.
She had survived worse. Not many, not often. But enough to know: pain was not the enemy. Panic was.
She listened.
Breathing, uneven, but stabilizing.
Heartbeat, fast, but controlled.
Limbs—
She tested them.
Nothing.
Light burned overhead.
Too clean. Too deliberate. A chandelier hung above, every candle lit, flooding the room with brightness that erased shadows. No blind spots. No hiding.
Whoever did this wanted everything seen.
She was on a table.
Wood. New. Cheap. Her arms were bound behind her, pulled high enough to strain her shoulders. Her chest pressed into the surface, forcing shallow breaths.
Not enough to suffocate.
Enough to remind.
"You're awake."
The voice came from beside her. Close.
Chivy turned her head.
Ruger stood there. Not looming. Not pacing. Still. Watching.
No hunger. No anger. No excitement.
Just attention.
That was wrong. Most men filled silence. He didn't.
Chivy said nothing.
Her eyes moved instead. Door. Distance. Walls. Corners. Paths.
None useful.
Ruger followed her gaze without turning his head.
"Still thinking," he said.
She pulled once against the ropes. Hard. The fibers bit into her skin. No give.
Pain flared. She ignored it. Measured instead.
"Don't," he said. "You'll waste strength."
Not a warning. A conclusion.
Chivy relaxed. Not obedience. Efficiency.
Silence stretched.
Ruger picked something up from the table. A broken bolt. Dried blood marked its tip.
He studied it. "Good angle," he said. "You didn't hesitate."
Chivy watched him.
"For a moment," he continued, "I thought you might die."
He looked at her. Not checking. Evaluating.
Chivy spoke. Her voice was rough. Steady.
"I'm not done."
Ruger paused. Just enough to matter. Then a slight smile.
"Good."
Time passed. Chivy didn't count it. Didn't need to.
Her breathing slowed. Pain shifted. Her body adapted.
The ropes.
Not strength. Angle. Friction.
She adjusted her shoulder. A fraction.
Nothing.
Again. Different direction. Different pressure.
A fiber strained.
Ruger saw it. Of course. He didn't move. Didn't interrupt.
"Show me," he said quietly.
Chivy ignored him.
Another shift.
The rope tightened, then slipped.
She stopped. Waited.
Then pulled.
The rope snapped.
She moved before the sound finished.
Up. Twist. Turn. Her body rolled off the table in one motion. Pain chased behind her, slower than instinct. Her hand hit the table edge, wood splintered, a shard tore free.
She drove forward.
Fast. Clean. Direct.
Ruger stepped back. Not reacting. Timing.
The shard missed his throat by a breath.
She didn't stop. No reset. Second motion, closer, faster.
This time, no space.
Her blade touched his skin. A thin line opened. Blood.
For a fraction of a second, she had him.
No interruption. No distance. No mistake.
Ruger should have died.
Something was wrong.
The angle was perfect. The distance was gone. And yet he was still there. Unmoved.
The blade had cut him.
But not where it should have ended.
Chivy's eyes sharpened.
She adjusted, drove forward.
The skeleton was already there.
Not between them. Behind her.
No.
That wasn't right.
She had seen—
It hadn't moved. It hadn't existed.
And yet—
Bone collided with her arm. The strike shifted. Just enough.
The killing line missed.
Ruger stepped back.
The moment broke.
Chivy didn't follow. She stopped. Recalculated.
The skeleton stood again. In front of her.
No transition. No movement.
Two positions. One presence.
Impossible.
Good.
"Not magic," she said.
Ruger didn't answer.
"Something else."
Still nothing.
She stepped forward again. Testing.
This time she didn't aim for him.
She aimed for the space.
The skeleton flickered.
No.
The world flickered.
Her blade passed through nothing, then struck bone that wasn't there a moment ago.
The feedback traveled up her arm.
Wrong.
Good.
Now she knew.
Footsteps outside.
Voices. Armor. Too many. Too fast.
The footsteps stopped. A voice, older, colder, spoke outside.
"Clear the street. No witnesses."
The window was closing.
Chivy lowered her weapon. Just slightly.
She looked at Ruger. Really looked this time.
Not prey. Not target.
Problem.
"I'll remember you," she said.
Ruger met her gaze.
"I know."
She held his eyes for one second longer.
Then she turned.
Gone.
The room settled.
Ruger stood still. A drop of blood slid from his neck.
He touched it. Looked at it.
"She was closer than expected," he said.
The skeleton stood beside him. Silent.
Ruger didn't look at it.
"You moved early," he said.
No answer.
"Or late."
A pause.
"Or neither."
That made him smile.
Outside, the city was already shifting.
Witnesses. Noise. Movement. Attention.
The next morning, notices appeared on every corner.
Wanted: Sword and Blood Rose Mercenary Corps. Treason. Murder. Escape from custody.
Chivy's name was there. Her friends' names. The dead mage's name.
Five hundred gold for the woman. Thirty for the others.
Ruger read the notice once. Folded it. Said nothing.
He picked up the staff. Turned it once.
"This won't stay small."
He looked toward the door.
"They'll start looking."
A pause.
"Good."
END OF CHAPTER 6