The Festival of Ash burns red above the rooftops.
Drums echo through the lower wards. Lanterns swing from frayed ropes. Smoke blurs the stars.
We move through the crowd as shadows.
Wren hands out the masks—smaller than mine, simpler. Meant to shield identity, not define it. Lira fastens hers without a word. Kett already has hers on. Branvel grins under his.
The four seal-holders fall into line behind me. Still quiet. Still unsure. But loyal now. The Vault holds their pledge.
We split.
Narth and Wren head for the eastern posts, near the merchant tents. Branvel and Kett take the rooftops. Lira stays with me.
The seal-holders drift wide, circling the square. Not as spies, not yet soldiers. But their presence bends the air around us. People feel it, even if they don't understand why.
Below, the people dance. Fire eaters, dust jugglers, song-runners. None of them know they're being used.
I see the Threadless marks first—stitched emblems under their sleeves, hands pressed to chests, speaking low to guards who pretend not to see.
"They're lining the square," Lira mutters. "Containment."
"They're waiting for something."
We move faster, through smoke and song. Then I see it.
At the center of the plaza, surrounded by dancers and flame, is a small cart stacked with kindling and bone.
A child steps up onto the cart, wearing a white mask too large for her face. Her voice shakes.
"Tonight, we remember the Ashing. Tonight, we burn what binds us—"
She doesn't finish.
The firewood beneath her glows—not red, not orange—but black and green. Threadless magic. Tethering magic.
One of the seal-holders—Nera, the one with the stitched mouth—shudders. "That's binding flame. Soulfire."
"They're trying to fix the people in place," Lira says. "Trap them."
"No," I say. "They're baiting *me.*"
I step forward and pull the ring from my finger.
It burns. Not in pain, but in memory. It wants to act.
The air near the cart ripples. The girl is gone. The kindling collapses.
And from the center of the firelight, he steps through.
Tall. Robes the color of bone dust. A ring of ivory on his hand. His mask is full. No openings. No features. Just smooth white silence.
The crowd freezes.
Even the air seems to stop moving.
I walk toward him.
The fire between us bends away from his presence.
"So," I say. "You come out of the dark."
He tilts his head, voice soft and wrong. "The dark remembers what the light forgets."
The seal-holders spread into a defensive crescent behind me. Nera, Voul, Fenn, and Jeral—each one bearing the mark of the Vault.
Lira draws her blade. Kett lifts her hands, threads ready to pull.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"Not want. *Need.* This city is a lie. Built on buried oaths and stolen fire."
"You think tearing it down will fix it?"
"No. I'll *rewrite* it."
"And the people in it?"
"They'll burn. Or serve."
I raise the ring. "You've felt this. You know what it holds."
He nods once. "I remember her. Vellidra. She chose silence. You won't."
"No," I say. "I choose voice."
Our rings ignite at the same time—his in bone light, mine in stormlight.
The clash is silent.
But the ground shakes.