The world was a cacophony of light.
Catherine blinked, her head throbbing, as if her skull were a vise being inexorably tightened. Every drop of rain, every piece of trash, every crawling insect was a beacon, emitting colored filaments that tangled into a chaotic and blinding tapestry.
The vision was a gift, but a gift that threatened to drive her mad.
She brought a trembling hand to her temple, her cold fingers pressing into her skin. Breathe, she ordered herself.
Panic was an old enemy, always ready to drag her under. But this time, a new force opposed it: curiosity. A fierce, hungry curiosity.
Her gaze fell upon the copper coin, which shone with a greedy, silvery light on the cobblestones. The thread connecting it to the man who had thrown it stretched into the distance, thinning until it was nearly invisible. It was a bond of transaction, cold and impersonal.
But there were other threads. Threads so tenuous she would never have noticed them without this new perception. Threads of regret, of carelessness.
With an effort that cost her another wave of pain, Catherine focused, no longer on the entirety of the vision, but on a single concept: loss.
She searched for the threads that led nowhere, those that had been broken, the echoes of objects separated from their owners.
Slowly, the chaotic web began to organize itself.
Most of the lights faded, and only a few remained bright. One of them, a small glint of bronze tinged with the energy of alcohol and haste, pulsed weakly under a pile of old, moldy newspapers. Catherine approached, pushed aside the stinking leaves, and her fingers met the cold of two more copper coins.
A few feet away, a broken thread of sorrowful blue drew her to a crack in the wall. She slipped her fingers inside and pulled out a small silver coin, tarnished but of far greater value. It must have been there for weeks. Forgotten. Lost.
Until now.
Catherine clenched the three coins in her palm. It wasn't much, but the difference was abyssal. Garrick's single coin was the price of her submission. These were the fruit of her power.
The vertigo that came with it was intense, draining her of energy she didn't have. Hunger roared in her stomach, more violent than before, and the cold seemed to seep into her very bones. This power had a cost, drawing directly from her vitality.
She left the Serpent's Coil alley, stumbling slightly, and reached the Street of Whispers, a wider and busier artery.
The smell of hot bread from a bakery twisted in her gut.
With one of her new copper coins, she bought a small, stale roll. Nothing had ever tasted so good. Energy returned faintly to her limbs, but she knew it was only a reprieve. A roll of bread wouldn't get her far. Neither would a handful of coins.
Her life had been a succession of short-term solutions.
Selling her body for a meal, for a night in a squalid room out of the rain. She now realized it was precisely this cycle that kept her caged. To break her chains, she didn't need a meal. She needed stability. She needed power.
Leaning in a doorway, out of sight, she ate her bread slowly, observing the crowd. And for the first time, she watched not with the eye of prey trying to hide, but with that of a predator choosing her target.
She reopened her third eye, bracing for the pain. The street exploded once more into a symphony of light. But this time, she was ready. She no longer sought loss, but wealth. Power. Ambition.
Ordinary people were surrounded by thin, pale threads: soft blues of familial love, dull grays of routine, fragile pinks of hope.
Wealthy merchants shone with a brighter gold, threads of greed connecting them to their shops, their customers, the guards they paid for protection. It was better, but still too simple.
Too direct.
Then she saw him.
He was not the most richly dressed, but the threads emanating from him were of a fascinating complexity and intensity.
He was leaving a tavern called "The Cracked Chalice," a place known to host minor officials and second-rate ambitious men.
A thick thread, a sickly, mold-green color, connected him to the town hall: the thread of his ambition. It was strong, almost as thick as a rope, vibrating with impatient desire.
Another thread, thin as a razor's edge and a dark red, almost black, stretched in another direction, toward the pawnbrokers' district.
The thread of debt. It was stretched taut enough to snap, vibrating with fear and desperation. Finally, a few thinner, frayed threads of a faded straw-yellow connected him to a small house in a modest neighborhood. Love for his family, a genuine but neglected love, weakened by his other passions.
Catherine felt her heart quicken, not with fear, but with excitement. This man was an open map. A man whose ambition far outstripped his means. A man willing to risk everything to climb one more rung, while being paralyzed by the fear of a debt that could cost him everything. A man who had flaws.
She did not know his name. She knew nothing of his exact position. But she saw the architecture of his soul. She saw where to press to make him bend.
The man straightened his collar, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder before heading toward the main street. He was her key. Not a simple coin for a meal, but a key capable of opening a door. A door leading to more power, more secrets, more threads to pull.
She finished her bread, the flavor of the crumb mingling with the new and intoxicating taste of power. She pushed herself away from the doorway, a silent shadow slipping into her target's wake. The huntress had found her first prey, and for the first time, it was not to survive the night. It was to begin owning the city, one thread at a time.