The first swing caught him in the ribs. Sharp enough to make him grunt, yet not enough to slow him down.

She was all fight—teeth bared, twisting her arms like she could wrench free if she just pulled hard enough. Most people went limp once they realized what he was. She didn’t.

Veyr dragged her through the treeline, his boots sinking in the wet earth. The moon kept low enough to cover them, the tower already swallowed behind a curtain of branches. She kicked again—this time catching his thigh—and he gave her a sharp jerk forward. If she fell, he’d just haul her by the rope. He’d done it before.

By the time they reached the cabin, his knuckles itched for a drink. He shoved the door open, the hinges giving a long, high-pitched groan. Inside smelled of damp wood and disuse—good. No one had been here in weeks.

“Sit.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed like a blade.

She didn’t. So he made her with a firm shove into the chair by the cold hearth. The thing wobbled under her weight, but the legs were still sound. He crouched, looping rope quick and practiced—wrists to the spindles, ankles to the front rung. She kept moving, straining against the coarse fiber, but it was desperation without a plan. He’d seen the difference.

He straightened, rolling his shoulder where she’d landed her elbow earlier. The ache was already fading. He’d had worse.

Seven years of debt sat heavy in his bones.

Not tavern debt, not cards or dice. The kind you didn’t survive unless you paid in gold or blood. Olin Marr didn’t take excuses. First it was coin. Then a finger. Then a hand. Then your life. Veyr had been buying time with whatever jobs came his way—caravans, bounties, retrievals.

Retrieval usually meant people.

This one was supposed to be different. Not in a sentimental sense—he couldn’t care less who she was to anyone else—but in value.

Warded away in some cursed tower, hair like spun gold, magic whispered through taverns from one drunken mouth to the next. She could clear his debt and leave him with enough to disappear. Maybe buy a patch of land somewhere no one would look at him twice. Somewhere he’d never have to climb another cursed tower again.

He pulled his hood back, dropping the rope coil on the table. The only sound was her breathing— measured now, like she was deciding whether to fight harder or wait him out.

“You can stop testing the knots,” he said, leaning against the table. “You’ll wear the skin off your wrists before you get anywhere.”

She didn’t stop.

His mouth pulled into something close to a smirk, though there was no humor in it. “I’ve hauled men twice your size who swore they’d break free. Most of ’em ended up begging me to loosen the rope before the hour was out.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on him. Defiant.

How bothersome.

“Here’s how it is.” He kept his tone even, unhurried—like he was explaining trade terms. “At midnight, we move. Roads will be empty. We get to the buyer before morning, and you never see me again. Simple.”

She tensed.

“If you’ve got something worth more than what they’ll pay,” he went on, “now’s the time to tell me. Otherwise, you’re just cargo.”

Silence. Just the faint creak of the chair when she shifted.

Veyr didn’t mind. The quiet worked in his favor. He’d learned early in the mercenary game that fear grew best when it had room to breathe.

He reached for his flask, took a slow swallow, and sat back down by the fire that wasn’t lit. The cabin felt smaller with her in it—not in a bad way, but in the way a caged animal draws the eye whether you want it to or not.

Midnight couldn’t come fast enough.