They left before dawn.
No announcement. No farewell. Just movement. The city fell away behind them without resistance. Falburg didn't try to keep them.
That was useful.
They rode light—too light for a siege, too heavy for a scout. A compromise.
Ruger didn't like compromises.
"Seventy miles," Kate said. "Less if we cut through the forest."
Lens grimaced. "We don't cut through that."
"We do," Kate said.
No one argued.
The road ended where the trees began.
The forest didn't welcome them. It didn't need to. Light thinned. Sound shifted. The air grew heavier—not colder, not warmer. Just… closer.
"Spread," Kate said.
They moved without speaking. Loose formation. Wide sightlines. No center.
Ruger ignored the trees. He watched the gaps—places where something should be, and wasn't.
"Tracks," someone whispered. Fresh. Too clean.
"Slow," Kate said.
They slowed.
Nothing moved.
That was the problem.
They reached the ridge by midday.
Cyrus Castle lay beyond it. Not a ruin. Not abandoned. Occupied. Smoke rose in thin, controlled lines. Movement along the walls. Not many. Enough.
No banners. No noise.
"They're not hiding," Franco said.
"They don't need to," Ruger said.
Kate studied the approach. "Too open. We don't get close."
Lens frowned. "Then why are we here?"
"Watching."
Ruger gave a slight nod. Watching mattered.
They held position.
Time passed.
Then—movement. Not on the walls. Below.
Six riders. Light armor. No markings. Easy pace. Too easy.
"Patrol," Kate said.
"Or bait," Ruger said.
A beat.
"Positions."
They moved. Into the trees. Into angles. Into lines that hadn't existed a moment ago.
The riders came closer. Talking. Laughing. Relaxed.
Wrong.
"Wait," Ruger said.
No response.
"Wait."
The arrow flew.
The lead rider dropped. Clean.
Everything broke.
The others didn't panic.
They split. Two forward. Two back. Two into the trees.
Not retreat.
Adjustment.
"Now!" Eit roared.
Too loud. Too late.
Steel met steel.
Ruger didn't move. He watched.
One rider stepped—and slipped.
Not luck.
Ruger adjusted. A fraction. Friction. Angle.
The ground mattered.
The rider went down. Franco finished it.
One.
Another rider turned toward Ruger.
Fast. Direct. Clean.
Too clean.
Ruger stepped—and missed.
The blade passed where he'd been—
and found him anyway.
Pain. Immediate. Real.
Ruger staggered. Looked down.
Blood.
Wrong.
He hadn't misread the step. Hadn't misjudged the distance.
So why was he bleeding?
"Behind you!" Lens shouted.
Too late.
The second strike came from an angle that didn't exist.
Ruger turned.
Too slow.
Impact.
The world dropped.
He hit hard. Air gone. Vision breaking.
Sound collapsed.
Steel. Shouts. Something cracking.
He didn't hear it.
He felt—
absence.
Something was wrong.
Not the fight.
Not the enemy.
The space.
A shadow moved above him.
Blade coming down.
Clean. Final.
Ruger watched it fall.
No distance. No correction.
This should have ended him.
It didn't.
Bone met steel.
Or something like it.
Not in front.
Not behind.
Exactly where it needed to be.
Floya.
The skeleton didn't block. Didn't defend.
It simply—
was there.
The blade struck—
and stopped.
For a fraction of a second—
everything aligned.
Ruger saw it.
Not movement.
Not speed.
Position.
Floya wasn't faster.
Wasn't stronger.
It was already there.
The moment broke.
Ruger moved.
Not away.
Through.
The rider's balance shifted—just enough.
Ruger caught the wrist.
Turned.
Broke it.
The blade fell.
Floya moved again.
No motion.
No transition.
Elsewhere.
The strike ended it.
Two.
The remaining riders broke.
Not panic.
Decision.
They left. Fast. Clean.
No one chased.
Silence returned.
Eit was breathing hard.
Lens let out a thin, shaky laugh.
Franco kept his eyes on the trees.
Kate looked at Ruger.
At the blood.
At the ground.
"You said wait."
Ruger nodded.
"You didn't explain."
Ruger wiped his mouth. "You wouldn't have listened."
A pause.
Kate let it go.
"Report."
"Six," Franco said. "Trained."
"Not random," Lens said.
"Not weak," Eit added.
Kate nodded. "Not alone."
They all felt it.
The forest hadn't changed.
That was the problem.
Ruger looked at Floya.
It stood beside him.
Still.
Wrong.
One rib was cracked.
Gone a moment later.
Replaced.
Not healed.
Adjusted.
Ruger exhaled slowly.
"That wasn't a patrol."
Franco shook his head. "No."
Ruger looked toward the castle.
"They wanted us to see them."
Silence.
Lens swallowed. "So what does that make us?"
Ruger didn't hesitate.
"We weren't hunting them."
A beat.
"We were seen."
He looked at the blood on his hand.
"Next time," he said quietly, "we don't make that mistake."
A pause.
"We don't go where they expect us."
A beat.
"We make them move first."
The wind moved through the trees.
Nothing else did.
Then—
Ruger tried to stand.
His body didn't answer.
The world tilted. Gray at the edges.
Someone was shouting. He couldn't tell who.
Then—
nothing.
The thread held. Faint. But there. It never broke.
END OF CHAPTER 10