They call her Kett.
One of the newer Threadless. Young, quiet, fast with knives—but faster with observation. Not a killer. Not yet. Just a messenger. A runner.
Still close enough to the ground to smell rot before the wind changes.
We find her in the textile quarter, slipping between the dye carts like a shadow wrapped in color.
Lira signals first. No words. Just a twist of the fingers, a shared code.
Kett freezes.
She recognizes Lira.
Then she sees me—hood low, coat darker than the alley, mask still hidden but near.
"Orders?" she asks cautiously.
"Questions," I reply.
That unsettles her more.
---
We lead her to a tucked-away storeroom. Dust thick on the shelves, old bolts of fabric stacked like forgotten tomes.
I close the door.
Kett watches me. She's smart enough to be nervous, but not reckless enough to run.
"Do you believe in what we do?" I ask.
She tilts her head. "We? Or *they*?"
"Both."
Silence.
Then, quietly: "I believed it was justice. That we broke chains."
Lira steps forward. "And if the ones giving orders… wear different chains?"
Kett hesitates.
"That's not what Vannor says," she finally replies.
I nod. "Then maybe it's time to stop listening to Vannor."
---
We don't reveal everything. Just enough.
A copy of a contract that was never meant to exist. A name we know was blackmailed into silence. A map of funds moved through dead hands.
Kett stares at the evidence. Then at us.
"They'll kill me if they find out I've seen this."
"They'll kill you anyway," Lira says flatly, "once they don't need you."
Kett breathes slowly, weighing the weight of the thread she's about to pull.
Then: "What do you want me to do?"
I meet her eyes. "Nothing. Not yet. Just listen. Watch. When the moment comes… choose the right side."
---
She nods once. Not a vow. Not a pledge.
But it's a start.
We let her go.
And when the storeroom door clicks shut behind her, Lira exhales. "That's one."
"We'll need more."
"We'll get them."
I glance at the ring. It pulses faintly—like it *approves*.
But somewhere deep behind my ribs, I feel something stir.
Not approval.
Not warning.
Just *anticipation*.
Like the ring knows:
The web has started to unravel.