Chapter 6: Knives, Poison, and Patience

  He slept -- but not fully.

  Just enough for his muscles to loosen, just enough for time to pass.

  The kind of sleep where one eye stays open, where every creak feels like a scream. Back to the wall, knife in

  hand, cold biting through his boots, he let his body rest while his mind stayed sharp -- on edge, measuring

  every breath beyond the door.

  At first, the house groaned and settled -- wind brushing past the walls, boards creaking above. But then there

  was something else. A shift. Breathing that wasn't his.

  He held still. Waited.

  Eventually, the footsteps retreated. Quiet, measured. Not gone -- just moved. She was still out there. Still

  listening.

  He didn't relax. Not yet. Not until the silence had stretched long and thin.

  Only then did he let his body slump -- not to rest, but to fool. Just enough to let his muscles sag. Just enough

  to bait a move.

  That's when he smelled it.

  It caught him off guard -- sharp and unfamiliar, something that didn't belong. His brow furrowed.

  '*What the hell is that smell?*'

  The question drifted across his mind as a heaviness bloomed behind his eyes. His limbs felt slower. Head

  fuzzy.

  He blinked hard. His head swam. Everything felt slow, like his limbs were made of wet sand.

  His body wanted to give in.

  Then he bit his tongue. Hard.

  The pain jolted him. His eyes snapped open. Breath held.

  This isn't smoke.

  It's that knock out-stuff. The kind people use to knock you out without a fight.

  He didn't move. Didn't breathe deep.

  He knew that smell.

  Why hasn't she come yet? he wondered, pulse drumming in his ears.

  He waited, a chill curling up his spine.

  Then it clicked.

  "Shit," he muttered under his breath. "She's planning to wait it out."

  A bitter scoff escaped him. Of course she would.

  "Alright then," he whispered, jaw clenched. "Let's see who's more stubborn."

  No one could hold their breath for hours. She knew that too.

  Nikolai tore a strip from the inside of his shirt, rough fabric scraping skin. He tied it tight over his nose and

  mouth, knotting it twice. It wouldn't stop everything, but it was something.

  Then he lay back down, slow and controlled. Pretending again.

  He wasn't going to charge out blind. Better to wait. Let her come to him -- let her think she'd won. Catch her

  off guard when she let hers down.

  Now it was just willpower. Just time.

  And hoping she blinked first.

  He opened his eyes and held his breath, listening.

  None came.

  Not then. Not soon after.

  Hours passed before anything changed.

  Then, finally, her steps returned -- soft, careful, measured. Not toward the door. Not away from it either. Just

  movement. Just presence.

  When she stopped, it wasn't to speak. It wasn't to knock.

  It was just... standing. Waiting.

  And when she finally acted, it wasn't with kindness.

  It was with purpose.

  The doorknob turned slowly. Clicked. Then silence.

  She waited again. Listening. Making sure the room was quiet. Making sure he was still.

  Nikolai forced his breathing into a deep, steady rhythm -- the kind a body gave when its asleep.

  The door opened.

  She stepped in.

  No words. Just a hum -- low and pleased, almost cheerful. Like someone setting the table for dinner.

  He heard her come closer. Slow steps. No hesitation.

  She knelt by his side. He felt her fingers brush his neck.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Checking his pulse.

  His mind screamed to move. But his body stayed still.

  She paused for a second. Then let out a soft breath. Satisfied.

  Nikolai thought, *She's done this before.*

  This wasn't just some desperate scavenger. She was careful. Too careful.

  He tightened his grip on the knife, just enough to be sure it was still there.

  She reached to her side. Pulled something soft -- a strip of robe, maybe leather. Intent clear.

  Restraints.

  She leaned forward.

  He moved.

  Fast. Violent.

  He caught her wrist mid-motion, twisted hard, rolled -- the cot groaning under them -- and slammed her into

  the floor.

  She shrieked, raw and desperate, a sound torn from someone who'd lived too long with hunger and fear. Her

  free hand clawed at him, nails raking skin.

  He drove the knife forward.

  She bucked under him, strength surprising. But he held strong and pinned her down.

  The blade sank into her shoulder. Not enough.

  She hissed and bit down -- teeth snapping inches from his cheek.

  He yanked the knife free and slammed it down again, driving the second strike into her side.

  She twisted under him, struggling. He gritted his teeth, raised the blade a third time, and rammed it just below

  her ribs.

  She gasped -- sharp and broken -- but still fought. Nails tearing at his face, knees bucking.

  The fourth strike was the last. Straight into the chest. Deep.

  She jerked. Then stilled.

  Nikolai stayed on top of her, panting, waiting for another trick. Another move.

  But none came.

  He looked down at her face -- pale, sharp, mouth slightly open like she'd been caught mid-laugh.

  No ordinary woman.

  He wiped the blood from his hand and stood, chest heaving.

  "Let's see who blinks now," he muttered.

  Then the strength left him.

  He staggered back a step, breathing uneven, legs trembling beneath him. The room tilted. His limbs felt too

  heavy, too slow. He reached for the cot -- missed -- and dropped hard to the floor beside her. Everything in

  him wanted to stay awake, to keep moving, but the poison still lingered in his blood. The last of his will had

  burned out in the fight.

  Darkness pulled him under.--

  He woke to cold.

  His cheek was pressed against the wooden floor, and beside him, not even an arm's length away, lay the

  woman's corpse. Dried blood on her shoulder, face slack and pale.

  He blinked, groggy. Then the memory came rushing back.

  "Shit," he muttered, sitting up fast.

  That was careless. If she'd only played dead -- waited him out -- he'd be the one lying still now. The kind of

  mistake that got people killed out here.

  His hands trembled as he pushed himself upright, every joint aching, his head pounding.

  Today was close.

  But then again, so were a lot of days.

  How many times had he almost died?

  He stopped counting a long time ago.

  He stood, legs stiff. Swayed once, steadied himself. Then started moving.

  He didn't check the woman's body again. Didn't loot it for sentiment. He took what he needed -- a half-full

  canteen, a pouch of dried roots, some old cloth that could be turned into bandages.

  There were herbs hung near the stove, dry and crumbling but still useful. He shoved them into his bag.

  In a tin near the hearth he found a few matches, wrapped in foil.

  He took those too.

  The house creaked as he opened the door. The outside air hit him like a slap -- cold and sharp, cutting through

  his sweat and lingering exhaustion.

  He looked out across the wild.

  The journey wasn't over.

  The Witch was still waiting.