"The Sinner is dead!"
The voice echoed through Ionspire's marble halls, triumphant and stupid in equal measure.
Sable pressed his back against cold stone—white marble, Upper City construction, the kind that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime—and looked down at his leg.
Gone below the knee. Clean cut. No blood—cauterized on contact.
*Annoying.*
Second stirred in his coat, warm weight against his chest. The bird's eyes opened—black, dull, barely focusing.
Weak. Dying.
*Both of us, then.*
Footsteps hammered closer. Dozens of them. *Seventy-three kills. Twenty-two days. They'd finally cornered him in Ionspire.*
*About time.*
Sable reached up. Secured the mask over his face—black metal, three-quarters coverage, slit over his right eye.
The blue one.
The only part of him they'd ever seen. The only part he'd let them see.
Identity was leverage. Anonymity was survival.
He drew his sword. Straight blade. Nothing fancy. Just steel that cut when you swung it.
His stump scraped concrete as he shifted weight. The nerve endings screamed. He ignored them.
*Forty seconds. Maybe less.*
The woman appeared at the corridor's end.
Tall. Armored in woven light—gold and silver threads forming patterns that moved, breathed, lived. Sovereign-rank. Had to be. Reality bent around her like it was paying attention.
Above her head, text only he could see:
**THE WEAVER**
She stopped ten meters away. Hands loose at her sides. But the threads—dozens of them, hundreds—poured from her fingertips like water. Crawled across marble. Filled the space between them.
Hungry.
Her face was calm. Professional.
But her eyes were *furious*.
"Sinner," she said. Soft voice. Cold. The kind of cold that came from holding rage so tight it froze. "Rheena Varthon sends her regards."
Sable looked at his missing leg. Back at her. Tilted his head slightly.
"Does she?" His voice came out flat through the mask. Empty. "That's funny. Last I checked, she was too busy choking on her own blood to send anyone anything."
The Weaver's threads *stopped*. Every single one. Frozen mid-crawl.
"But I could be wrong," Sable continued. Matter-of-fact. Clinical. "Maybe she got better. Maybe she learned to talk without a working jaw. You know how miracles are these days."
The temperature dropped.
The marble beneath the Weaver's feet *cracked*. Spiderwebbed. Her threads began glowing—gold turning white-hot.
"She died crying," he said. Voice never changing. Never rising. Just *stating*. "Begging. Asking why this was happening to *her*. Like she was special. Like she mattered more."
He paused.
"She didn't."
The Weaver's hands curled into fists. Her jaw clenched so tight something *cracked*.
"I watched the light go out of her eyes," Sable continued. "Watched her realize nobody was coming. That all the power, all the armor, all the noble blood in the world didn't mean *shit* when it came down to it."
His blue eye locked with hers.
"She died alone. Afraid. Knowing she'd failed."
Pause.
"Just like you're about to."
The Weaver *exploded*.
Not moved. *Exploded*.
Threads launching her forward like a ballistic missile—twenty feet in half a second—blade appearing in her hand, weapon made of condensed light, already swinging for his *throat*—
Sable drove his sword into the floor.
The blade sank six inches into marble. Locked in place.
Used it as an anchor. Pulled himself *left*—
The threads carved through the space where his chest had been. Pulverized stone. Left a crater five feet wide.
He yanked the sword free. One-legged. Off-balance.
The Weaver didn't stop.
Blade came high—he blocked—*clang*—
The impact drove him backward. His stump scraped marble. Nearly fell.
Strike. Strike. Strike.
Each blow faster. Harder. *Angrier*.
No technique. No precision. Just *fury*.
Sable blocked. Parried. Gave ground.
His vision was tunneling. Blood loss. Shock. The edge of consciousness fraying.
*Can't keep this up.*
Her blade came horizontal—
He ducked. Too slow. The light-weapon caught his shoulder. *Burned* through coat and skin.
Pain. White-hot. Blinding.
Sable stumbled. Went down on one knee.
The Weaver stood over him. Breathing hard. Threads coiling around her like serpents ready to strike.
"She trusted me," the Weaver said. Voice shaking. Raw. "She was my *partner*. My *friend*."
Sable looked up at her.
Said nothing.
"And you *butchered* her," the Weaver continued. "Like an *animal*. Like she was *nothing*."
"She was nothing," Sable said.
The Weaver's blade pressed against his throat. Just touching. Ready.
"House Varthon wanted you alive," she said quietly. "Wanted a public execution. Wanted to parade you through Pentec as an example."
Her threads wrapped around his arms. His chest. His remaining leg.
"But I don't give a *fuck* what House Varthon wants anymore."
The threads *squeezed*.
Sable's ribs cracked. Three of them. Maybe four. Breath left his lungs in a rush that tasted like copper.
His sword clattered from nerveless fingers.
Second stirred in his coat. Weak chirp. Confused. Hurting.
*No. Stay down. Stay hidden.*
The Weaver's blade rose. Positioned over his heart. Her face wasn't calm. Wasn't empty.
Just *done*.
"Rot in hell, Sinner."
The blade came *down*—
His hand shot up. Caught her wrist. Not stopping it. Just *touching*.
The threads tightened. Crushing. Breaking.
He looked at her through his one visible eye.
Smiled behind the mask.
"Tell House Varthon," he whispered through blood-filled mouth, "I'll see them soon."
The Weaver's face twisted. "You won't see *anything*—"
The blade punched through his chest.
*There.*
Cold. Sharp. Final.
Sable's vision went grey. Fading.
The Weaver pulled the blade free. Stepped back. Watched him collapse.
Second chirped. Soft. Weak. Dying with him.
*I'm sorry.*
His consciousness flickered. Stuttered.
*Seventy-three kills. Twenty-two days.*
*Not enough.*
*Not even fucking close.*
Regret flooded through him.
Not for dying.
For *losing*.
For House Varthon still standing. Still breathing. Still thinking their walls would protect them.
For doing this out of spite and pride and the cold satisfaction of making them *hurt*—and failing anyway.
For not killing them all when he had the chance.
For leaving the job *unfinished*.
**[T I M E S H I F T]**
**[RETROGRADE: ACTIVE]**
Reality *screamed*.
Colors inverted—white to black, black to white. Sound reversed, sucking backward into silence. His organs twisted, reformed, *rewound*—
His heart restarted.
His chest was whole.
His leg was still missing—one minute wasn't enough to go back that far—but the blade wound was *gone*.
He stood in the same corridor. The Weaver twenty feet away. Just appearing around the corner.
This moment. Again.
Second stirred. Still weak. Still dying.
*One minute back.*
*Not enough to win.*
*But enough to make her regret finding me.*
The Weaver's eyes found him. Her threads began pouring out.
"Sinner," she said. "Rheena Varthon sends her regards."
Sable drew his sword.
*Good.*
*Let's do this again.*
*And again.*
*And again.*
*Until one of us stops getting back up.*
-----
**THREE YEARS EARLIER**
-----
The robin wouldn't stop bleeding.