They think the storm is over.
But storms don't end.
They *move.*
The name comes faster than I expected.
Lira gets it from a runner who didn't run fast enough.
*Ezar.*
A silk-tongued Threadless tactician. Plans from the shadows. Smiles through lies.
He thought Wren was leverage.
He's about to learn what it *costs* to tug at the wrong thread.
We find him at the Needlehouse, a high-tier Threadless den near the Silkspire.
Marble floors. Perfumed guards. Velvet curtains to mask the rot.
He's holding court like a king who forgot he was born in the gutter.
I walk through the front door.
No stealth.
No mask.
Just fury.
The guards move to block me.
Lira's blades answer first—two arcs of silver that leave throats whistling open.
By the time they fall, my mask is on.
The ring hums like it's *starving.*
"Ezar," I say, my voice cold, shaped by power older than the walls around us. "You ordered the girl taken."
He doesn't deny it.
Doesn't flinch.
Instead, he leans forward, elbows on silk, fingers steepled like a man still in control.
"She was a risk," he says. "To *you.* You've forgotten what we are."
"No," I say, stepping closer. "You have."
He gestures.
More guards.
Seven this time. Trained. Armed.
I raise my hand.
The ring *sings.*
The air snaps—the lights above flicker—and then the world *shifts.*
I'm moving before they are. Threads of possible futures bloom in my mind—each strike, each dodge, each kill drawn in light.
I choose the fastest path.
The first falls with a broken spine.
The second tries to parry.
The ring warps his blade mid-swing—turns steel to *steam.*
Lira handles two more. She's faster now—like something about this fight has *awakened* her too.
A blade grazes my ribs.
The ring *burns* the wound shut in a flash of silver fire.
I don't stop.
I *won't.*
Soon it's just Ezar.
Still seated. Still smiling.
But I see it now—the tremor in his hand. The twitch in his left eye.
"Kill me and you break the chain," he warns. "I'm not the only link. The others—"
"The others will come," I finish. "Let them."
I lift him by the throat.
Not with rage.
With *judgment.*
"You forgot," I whisper. "This was never your game."
His eyes widen.
The ring pulses one final time.
And Ezar's body jerks—his mind *ripped* wide by something it can't hold.
Not fire. Not death.
*Truth.*
He crumples like a puppet with cut strings.
The Needlehouse is quiet now.
Burning.
Lira wipes blood from her cheek.
"That was loud," she says.
"Good."
"You've declared war."
"No," I murmur. "I've declared *rule.*"
Outside, under the fractured moon, I feel the city turning.
The shadows shifting.
The whispers bending toward a new center.
Not the Threadless.
*Me.*
*They struck first.*
*I strike last.*
*Let the rest come running.*
*I've stopped running back.*