Chapter 6: Pack Light
Rowanda came before sunset.
She didn't knock.
People like Rowanda didn't knock on doors. They entered, and the world adjusted.
Her cloak carried the cold with it, reptile-skin dark against the chestnut of my little loft. Two men stood behind her, quiet and watchful, like they'd been instructed not to blink too much around me.
"You," Rowanda said, as if she'd forgotten my name on purpose. "Pack a small bag."
I kept my blank. "For what?"
"Riverway," she answered, like the word should explain everything.
My stomach tightened. So Ashirai hadn't lied. That made it worse.
"What do you need me for?" I asked.
Rowanda's eyes narrowed. One blue, one green—never matching, never soft.
"You ask too many questions for property."
I swallowed whatever reply tried to jump out of me. Four years had taught me which battles were expensive.
Rowanda tossed something onto my table. A folded paper seal. An itinerary, maybe. Or a leash written in ink.
"You leave at first light," she said. "Obara, Stan, and you."
"Only three?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Rowanda smiled without warmth. "You should feel honored."
I didn't.
She turned slightly, and one of her men stepped forward with a rough sack that clinked like coin or scrap. He set it down by the stairs.
Rowanda tapped the sack with one finger.
"And take aluminium."
The word hit wrong.
Not because I didn't know what it was.
Because no one asked for aluminium unless they were thinking about weight, movement, travel, and the kind of work that didn't happen inside safe city walls.
"How much?" I asked.
Rowanda's gaze sharpened, pleased that I'd finally asked the right question.
"A lot."
Then she leaned in close enough that I could smell the metal on her—blood, oil, cold steel.
"And Leno," she said softly, like a secret, "don't embarrass me in Benevira."
Her hand drifted to the hilt at her waist.
The sword she'd taken from me.
The sword Grogan had made for someone else.
I kept my eyes on her face and not on the blade.
"I won't," I said.
Rowanda stepped back, satisfied.
As she left, I watched the door close behind her, and I realized something simple and heavy.
This wasn't a trip.
It was a test.
Or a sale.
When the footsteps faded, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the aluminium sack until my eyes started to blur.
I thought of Ashirai's hands yanking up that carpet.
The secret door.
The way she'd looked at me like I'd chosen death over her.
Maybe I had.
I stood and began to pack.
One shirt. Two if I could fit it.
A cloak.
A whetstone.
A small hammer I trusted more than most people.
Then my hand drifted toward my boot out of habit.
Metal answered.
Familiar weight.
My knife.
It didn't matter how many hands took it. It always found its way back.
I held it for a moment longer than I needed to, listening to the quiet of my house.
The quiet wasn't peace.
It was the pause before something breaks.
And as I tied the bag shut, a memory surfaced—clear and sharp, like steel rung the right way.
The first time the palace learned my name.