Power doesn't go unanswered.
Not in Stonefold.
Not among the Threadless.
---
The Needlehouse burns behind us, painting the sky with smoke and silver light.
I don't look back.
I already buried the past there.
But ahead?
Something stirs in the silence.
---
We hole up in a safehouse near the Crooked Vein—a maze of shattered bridges and slum rooftops where even the rats fear the walls.
Wren sleeps. She needs it.
Lira watches the windows, blades at the ready.
I sit with the ring against my palm, its glow dim but steady. Almost thoughtful.
Then he arrives.
---
The man's name is *Quill.*
An informant. Double-tongued. Eyes too sharp for someone with no blades.
Lira nearly kills him when he enters through the roof vent.
"I come with news, not threats," he says, raising both hands. "That buys me one breath, yes?"
"You've had two," I reply.
He gulps and sits.
---
"They're meeting," he says. "Tonight. Deep in the Stonefold Warrant. Off-the-books forum. Just Threadless upper circle and key commanders."
"Why?" Lira asks.
Quill glances at me. "Because of *you.* Because of *him.*"
---
"They're calling it a fracture," Quill continues. "Some say it's time to cut the Masked One loose. Others say bend the knee before he tears down the rest. But *most*… want revenge."
"They wouldn't risk open war," Lira mutters.
Quill shakes his head. "No. They want something worse. Quiet vengeance. Clean. *Symbolic.*"
I don't speak.
Because the ring *shows* me.
A flash.
A room with smoke-dark mirrors. Voices arguing behind masks.
A map marked with names.
*Wren's name.*
Lira's.
*Mine.*
---
"What are they planning?" I ask, voice low.
Quill hesitates. "They've put out three contracts. Old-world hitters. No guild ties. No creeds."
"Assassins?" Lira breathes.
"Worse," he says. "*Collectors.*"
---
My blood goes still.
Collectors don't kill for coin.
They erase.
Erase people, stories, even symbols.
The Threadless don't just want to *stop* me.
They want to *unmake* me.
---
"When and where?" I ask.
"Midnight," Quill replies. "They meet in the Hollow Vault. Under the southern magistrate's ruin. Only open with four seals—each held by a different inner-circle Threadless."
Lira scowls. "We don't have the keys."
"We don't need them," I say.
Because the ring hums with purpose again.
Not just a weapon.
A *compass.*
---
I close my eyes.
And I *see* it.
Four seals. Four holders. Scattered across the district.
Each unaware they're already threads in my grasp.
The ring whispers their names like a lullaby:
—*Calin of the Gilded Vow.*
—*Marrow, the Glass Whisperer.*
—*Yvenna, Twin-Tongue.*
—*Thorne the Gravedancer.*
---
Lira sees my expression shift.
"What are you thinking?" she asks.
I rise, mask in hand.
"If they want symbols," I say, "I'll show them what happens when they try to kill one."
---
Tonight, I collect the seals.
Tomorrow, I crash their council.
And then?
The Threadless will learn what it means to conspire against a storm.
---
*You can't erase what was never written in their books.*
*You can't kill what never had a name.*
*They want silence?*
*I'll give them thunder.*