Not every war starts with a scream.
Some begin with the soft clink of cups, the scrape of boots against stone, and the knowledge that tonight… no one is watching.
We gather in a forgotten room beneath the north wall—what once may have been a wine cellar, or a war room, or both.
Now, it holds only crates, dust, and half-spent candles.
And us.
Six people.
Well—five for now. Sov's late, as usual. But he'll come. He always does, breathless and sharp-eyed, bringing whispers the rest of us can't hear.
Lira leans against the far wall, arms crossed. The dim light catches the fresh scar along her jaw—a mark from a job that went sideways. She hasn't talked about it.
But she stayed.
Narth picks at a piece of bread like it owes him silver.
Branvel sharpens his blade without looking at anyone, but when I catch his eye, he gives the faintest nod.
Kett perches on a crate, legs tucked beneath her, eyes sharp despite her size. The youngest of us—but sometimes the most direct.
And me. The one they still call by no name.
Wren isn't part of this.
I've kept her away from these shadows, from what we're about to do. There's still one corner of my life I want to leave untainted—for now.
The room is quiet, thick with what we aren't saying.
Then Kett speaks, voice small but clear.
"Why are we doing this?"
Everyone turns.
She blushes, but doesn't look away.
"They give us coin. Shelter. Names. Why pull at the thread if it keeps us warm?"
I take a breath. Not too heavy. Not too loud.
And I answer with what's true:
"Because the warmth comes from a fire that burns others. And we've just been lucky not to stand too close yet."
Silence again.
Then Branvel grunts. "So what?
We cut it all down?"
"No," I say. "We fix the weave. Tear out the rot. Start over."
"And who decides what stays?"
Narth asks, half-smiling.
I meet his gaze.
"When the time comes—we all do."
Lira shifts. Her voice is low, but sure.
"We decide together. No more lords hiding in the dark."
That lands heavier than anything else.
Because some of us remember what it felt like to believe the Threadless were the last refuge from kings and knives.
Now we know better.
We light a candle. A small one.
Just to say we met. Just to say we're still here.
Six flames in a city built to snuff them out.
For tonight… it's enough.
Just as we rise to leave, Sov slips through the door—late, breathless.
"There's something else," he says, voice low. "A name came through the Whisper Net."
He slides a folded scrap of paper onto the table.
Lira picks it up, reads it silently.
Her jaw clenches.
She passes it to me.
It's not a target list. Not a mission order.
Just one word, scribbled in quick, slanted ink.
Wren.
My breath freezes in my throat.
"She's been asking questions," Sov says. "About the Genn contracts, about how decisions are made. About you."
My knuckles tighten around the edge of the table.
"She spoke to one of Marrek's informants. Then she disappeared. No one's seen her since yesterday."
A silence settles like dust.
Not the cold silence of doubt—but the sharp silence before something breaks.
The ring on my finger pulses once.
Not just warm—aware.
"She's not one of us," Lira says carefully. "They'll say she crossed a line."
"She didn't cross anything," I say. "They did."
Lira meets my eyes.
And for the first time since I met her, I see fear in hers.
Not for herself.
For me.
Because the mask has teeth.
Because the ring is waking.
And because this isn't just rebellion anymore.
This is personal.