Healer's porcelain fingers twitched against the alley wall as she peered around the corner—not with human caution, but with the jerky precision of a clockwork bird spotting prey. Goburo saw it first: the cage. Not iron bars, but living roots coiled tight as hangman's rope, their bark etched with Golden Company sigils that pulsed faintly in the torchlight. Inside, Nettle curled around herself like a wounded animal, her greenish skin gone ashen where the roots bit into her wrists.
And beside her—*Watabei*.
Goburo's breath hitched. They'd bound her hands with something worse than rope—thorns, thick as fishing hooks, woven through her sleeves until every shift drew fresh blood. Her head lolled against the cage bars, dark hair matted with something too thick to be sweat. The archer stood over them, his boot planted on Watabei's thigh as he leaned down to say something that made Nettle flinch.
Layla's ears flicked backward. "Wards are active," she murmured, her breath stirring the fur collar of Goburo's cloak. "Break the circle, and those roots tighten like nooses."
The puppet's fingers scraped the alley wall, porcelain nails scoring the brick. Goburo didn't need to see her face to know what expression she wore—that vacant, hungry stare she got before digging her hands into a wound.
Then the archer moved.
Not toward the cage—toward a rusted brazier in the corner, its embers glowing faintly beneath a coil of iron. Goburo's stomach lurched as recognition hit. *Branding rods.* The Golden Company's favorite way to mark prisoners who talked back.
Watabei lifted her head just as the archer plucked one from the coals, its tip glowing orange. Even from this distance, Goburo saw the way her throat worked—not in fear, but in *calculation*. Her bound hands twitched, the thorns biting deeper as she tested her restraints.
Layla's fingers dug into Goburo's arm. "Wait," she breathed.
Too late.
The puppet lurched forward with a creak of porcelain joints, her stiff-legged gait carrying her into the torchlight with eerie precision. The thugs startled, reaching for weapons—then froze as they registered her doll-like face, the too-smooth way she tilted her head.
"The fuck?" The archer lowered the branding rod, squinting.
Goburo cursed under his breath. No time for stealth now. He lunged from the shadows, dagger-first—only to skid to a halt as the roots *twitched*. The cage bars slithered like constrictors, tightening around Nettle's wrists with a wet *crack* of breaking skin.
"Move and she snaps," the archer sneered, pressing the glowing iron closer to Watabei's face. She didn't flinch. Her fingers flexed behind her back, blood dripping from the thorn bonds—too deliberately, Goburo realized. *Counting seconds.*
Layla stepped into the light, hands raised. "Easy," she purred, her tail flicking lazily. "We're just—"
The puppet moved.
Her porcelain joints clicked like dice in a cup as she lurched toward the cage, her painted eyes locked on Nettle's broken wrist. The archer swung the branding rod—too slow. The puppet's hand snapped out, fingers splaying against his chest with a sound like a wet towel hitting stone. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then his scream tore through the alley as his ribs *bloomed* outward, flesh splitting along old scar lines in perfect, surgical stripes.
Goburo moved in the chaos, diving for Watabei's thorn-bound hands—only to skid short as the roots *twitched*. The cage bars constricted with a wet creak, pressing Nettle's face into the iron-hard tendrils. "Stop!" The archer's voice cracked as he clutched his burst chest. "Another step and she—"
The puppet's head rotated 180 degrees. Her mouth unhinged like a serpent's.
That's when the Golden Company thugs *finally* recognized her—not as some creepy automaton, but as *the* Healer of Hollow Hill, the thing mercenaries whispered about in taverns after too much ale. The one who could stitch a gut wound with one hand and peel a man's spine out with the other. They backed away, tripping over each other, but the puppet was already moving, her joints clicking toward the cage with single-minded hunger.
The branding rod's glow painted Watabei's face orange—close enough now to singe her eyelashes. She didn't blink. Behind her back, her fingers kept moving, twisting the thorn bonds just so, letting the barbs tear deeper. Blood dripped steady as candle wax onto the roots beneath the cage. They twitched.
Goburo saw it first: the way the roots recoiled from her blood, their bark blackening where it touched. The Golden Company sigils flickered.
Then Layla ruined everything by laughing.
It wasn't her usual knife-edged chuckle—this was full-throated, reckless, the sound of someone who'd just spotted the fatal flaw in a trap. The archer jerked toward her, rod wavering. "The fuck's so funny?"
The branding rod's glow painted Watabei's face in stripes of orange and shadow—too close now to be anything but imminent. Goburo's fingers twitched around his dagger, but the roots coiled tighter around Nettle's wrists in warning. Then Layla laughed again, sharp as shattered glass.
"Funny?" The archer's grip tightened on the rod. "What's funny?"
Layla flicked her tail toward the puppet. "You brought iron to a root fight."
The puppet's head tilted—too far, too fluid—and Goburo saw it then: the way her porcelain fingers curled inward, nails elongating into bark-sharp points. Not a healer anymore. Something *older*.
The branding rod's tip hissed inches from Watabei's cheek, close enough to curl the stray hairs at her temple. Goburo's knuckles whitened around his dagger, but the roots constricting Nettle's wrists creaked in warning—one wrong move, and they'd snap bone like dry kindling. Across the cage, Layla's ears twitched toward the puppet's clicking joints as she inched forward, her movements too fluid now, too *alive*.
Watabei exhaled through her nose. Blood dripped from her thorn-bound wrists onto the cage floor—*tap, tap, tap*—a rhythm that matched the shudder of the roots beneath them. The Golden Company sigils pulsed erratically where her blood touched the bark.
"Easy," Layla purred, sidling closer to the archer with a sway that made his grip on the branding rod falter. "You really want to scar merchandise before auction?"
The archer's sneer faltered. Goburo saw his opening—lunged—and the roots *screamed*.
The branding rod's glow burned Goburo's retinas as the archer pressed it closer to Watabei's face—close enough to blister, but not yet to scar. The stench of searing hair filled the alley as stray strands curled and blackened at her temple. Watabei didn't flinch. Her fingers kept twisting behind her back, working the thorn bonds just enough to keep fresh blood dripping onto the roots beneath the cage. The drops hit with audible *plinks*, like coins dropped into a wishing well.
Layla's ears twitched backward. She was counting too.
Goburo's dagger trembled in his grip. He could take the archer—maybe—but the roots coiled around Nettle's wrists were the problem. One wrong move and they'd snap her delicate bones like kindling. The puppet's porcelain joints creaked as she inched forward, her movements suddenly too fluid, too *intentional*.
Then the trap sprang.