"He's getting closer," I tell Sov. "But I need you to find him first. Forget the Threadless for now. Leave them to the others. You focus on the one with the bone ring."
Sov doesn't question it. He nods once, sharp and silent, then slips into the night.
Kett works through the merchant lines. She's dressed as a courier now, carrying messages that carry more weight than gold. She marks doors with red chalk, signals I taught her. Threadless strongholds. By dusk, three more go up in smoke—quiet, targeted fires. No bodies. Just fear.
Narth moves through the undercity. He's found one of their meeting points. Empty. But not clean. Old blood on the wall. A sigil scratched into the stone—spirals wrapping around a broken thread. He copies it down, sends it back.
Branvel hunts names. The bounty lists are getting longer, and our names are still at the top. He's already taken down two collectors. Left their coins at the feet of the Temple ruins as a warning.
Wren watches from the tower above the Vault. She tells me there are fewer eyes now, but sharper ones. She's right. The Threadless aren't spreading—they're coiling.
I feel it in the ring. A tightening.
Sov sends his first word two days later. A runner brings the message: North Quarter. Last seen. Bone ring. Left no footprints.
He's real. And he's moving.
I send Sov a reply. No words—just a cut piece of cloth, Vellidra's old sigil burned into it.
He'll know what it means.
Keep going. Don't stop until you find him.
I stand at the center of the Vault. The others return one by one. They report their progress. Their wounds. Their worries. But we're moving forward. Pulling threads faster than the Threadless can sew them.
Still, the city doesn't sleep.
And neither do I.