Chapter 137 Lot Nine

Lot Nine hit Mara like a thrown knife, claws first, all teeth and no thought behind them.

She spun away on pure instinct, but the copy mirrored every pivot a heartbeat before she made it. Their claws met in a bright shower of sparks, identical hands, an identical stance, one shared snarl rising.

"She knows every move I have... she has all of them."

"Lot Nine," the copy hissed, drooling Hunt Fever, "that was the number on my cage."

Mara’s ears flattened, "That was my number too, I am not you."

The Pruners drifted into the clearing from every row, shears clicking, drawn by the hunger rolling off the copy. Every swipe of Lot Nine’s claws wanted blood so badly that the nearest blades swung eagerly toward the sound.

"Keep her busy," Riven said, drawing Overdue, "I’ll keep the gardeners busy."

Behind them Class Zero stood in a rigid ring, furniture on an errand, Bram’s battered bucket raised high. Veska held the perimeter with her spear grounded, wanting nothing, a hat stand with spare lightning in reserve.

Bram patted the battered bucket, "My bucket wants nothing, it is very spiritual."

"Keep your wanting small," Cassen muttered to Tobin, "think about soup or something equally dull."

He stepped between the Pruners and the fight, swinging Overdue at nothing in particular, hoping it would decide itself. The first swing missed by a mile, the second struck a shear by accident, leaving the Pruner thoroughly puzzled.

’Fight without wanting to win... the dumbest skill I have ever tried to learn on the spot.’

On the third swing he wanted the win for half a heartbeat, a mistake the shears punished almost immediately. Two blades raked across his back, shredding his coat, opening two hot lines of pain from shoulder to hip.

"Gah, two cuts noted, no more wanting," he gasped.

"Riven, your back, it is—" Isolde called across the ring, pointing at the red stain spreading through his coat.

"Embarrassing, I know," he said, grinning through his teeth, "stop looking."

The Pruners circled him in a slow ring, shears opening wider still, tasting the blood on the air. He forced his mind blank and walked backward step by careful step, fighting the urge to want anything.

"Hold still, you are being pruned like a hedge," Nix called, "it suits you."

Mara blocked another strike, her arms trembling hard under the weight of every single move she knew by heart. Then she noticed a ring of black roots at the edge of the moss, which the copy never crossed.

"She never steps past those roots, not once in this whole fight."

"She’s guarding a door, not you," Riven shouted over the shears, "look at where she stops."

A memory flickered across the clearing like lantern flame, all iron bars, a gavel, a crowd bidding loudly. Nobody in that crowd ever asked the little girl in the cage whether she wanted any of it.

’Auction cage, gavel, a hall bidding on a kid... the nightmare she never says out loud.’

The copy lunged, snarling, but its feet stopped at the roots as though the ground were bars. Mara retracted her claws one by one, letting the fury drain slowly out of her tired face.

"She isn’t trying to kill me, she’s trying to leave."

She turned her back on the copy, something she never did to an enemy, then walked to the roots. Pulling them aside like a cage door, she swung it wide, then sat down outside with her back turned.

"Out’s that way," she said, not turning around, "nobody’s buying."

The snarling behind her stopped, leaving a silence so deep the Pruners held their long shears open, patiently waiting. Even the lanterns seemed to dim a little, the whole grove leaning in to listen to a cub’s answer.

"Nobody is buying?" the copy asked in a very small voice.

Mara glanced over her shoulder, "Nobody will ever buy you again, I promise you that."

Lot Nine took one careful step, then another, her bare feet crossing the root line without making any sound. She paused trembling at the gap, then walked straight past Mara’s shoulder into the open moss and lay down.

She curled into a ball, ears folding flat, her collar splitting in half with a gentle chime.

Her small body dimmed and softened until she became a single lantern glowing warm on the moss.

’She didn’t beat her... she gave her what the auction never did, a way out.’

The Pruners lowered their shears in silence, drifting back into the rows as though nothing remained to cut anymore. Class One stumbled into the clearing in a ragged line, Dorian staring at the lantern with his notebook open.

"She is supposed to stay caged," Dorian whispered, "the story says so."

A murmur rippled through Class One, cadets glancing at the lantern, then at their leader, then at one another. Ormond lowered his eyes to the moss, plainly deciding the notebook was quietly losing an argument to a panther.

"Doors open from the inside too, you should try one sometime."

"Noted," Dorian muttered, writing nothing at all in his notebook.

"I would have fought it, that would have been the wrong answer," Cassen admitted quietly, staring at the lantern.

---

That night Isolde sat behind him in the camp tent with her needle, finishing the last of seven stitches. She tied off the thread, snipped it short, then pressed a cool wet cloth gently against the swollen skin.

"Seven stitches and a lecture on wanting," Isolde said, "you may keep both."

"I’ll frame the lecture, it can hang beside my receipts."

"Do not move for a full day," Isolde added, "or I shall sew you to the cot."

Mara slipped into the tent without a word and knelt behind him, ears flat, tail already moving. She checked each stitch with one fingertip, taking her time, as if proofreading a very long letter.

"Acceptable," Mara pronounced at last, which in her vocabulary was a medal.

Isolde gathered her needle and left without comment, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

Her tail wound around his waist twice, then her arms followed, her forehead dropping between his shoulder blades. She held on without speaking, the hour passing in quiet, her breath steady against the seven fresh stitches.

"I almost stayed in the cage," she murmured into his shirt, "I could feel it pulling."

"You opened the door," he said, "that’s the part that counts, the rest is geometry."

"I could turn my back, you were holding the gardeners and I trusted you to hold them," she said.

"I held them badly... I took two cuts for it."

"Acceptable," she said, tightening her arms.

Her arms loosened a fraction, only to tighten again, as if the long hour were still being weighed very carefully. Through the tent flap, the lantern left in the clearing glowed on the dark hillside, a window lit for someone.

’Two scars, seven stitches and one panther wrapped around my ribs... best invoice I ever paid.’

Outside, the nearest tree trunk split along a thin seam of white light, a door swinging open in the bark. Routekeeper Ivo stepped out, a golden-haired boy at his side wearing a bright brass token stamped with the number 1.

The boy rapped three knuckles on the sealed case at his hip, answered by three taps from within.