"You didn't need to bring the needle along, Leo Ravel. I was already here."
The voice wasn't lodged in the warehouse's wood, not even in the air—it sat directly in *meaning*. As if the words hadn't been spoken, but written onto the room. Before they reached Leo's ears, they had already sunk into him.
A thin blade of moonlight lay across the floor like a cut. In that cut, between the four of their shadows, there was a fifth shadow—one that could not be cast by any single body. Its edges weren't straight. Its edges were like threads, and those threads shifted place every moment, as if the shadow itself were trying to remember its shape.
Kerin pressed the box tighter to his chest. His breath caught, then came out—hard, careful. Maera's fingers tightened around her needle, and her wrist took a minute angle—the angle that forms just before a fight. Yara took out her candle, but didn't light it; the slight tremor in her hand said she didn't want to summon light, because light, too, sometimes becomes a signal.
Leo's body held still where it was, but inside him everything was moving. The new stitch-mark on his wrist—raised in the previous room—was *hot* now, as if someone had laid a finger on that signature. And the ash of his true name in his throat, as if awakened by this voice—still couldn't make itself into a word and come out.
"Who are you?" Kerin finally asked. There was fear in his tone, but also the stubbornness that always kept him upright in Chart-Hall—the stubbornness that nothing should remain "nameless."
The shadow let out a breath like laughter—not a hushed lack, but the presence of a *conscious* being, taking pleasure in its own existence.
"Me?" the voice said. "I'm the one who lives beyond the thread you people call the *sky*."
Maera lifted her needle into the air—very lightly—and placed a small stitch in front of the moonlit cut. The air there stiffened for an instant, as if a thin wall had been raised between the shadow and them.
"Name," Maera said. "Give your name. Or there won't be a conversation."
The shadow "looked" at the wall—and the wall quivered. The stitch didn't break, but its tension loosened, as if someone had refused to acknowledge it.
"In your language my name won't hold," the voice said. "And yours—" its tone softened, very slightly, as if it had kissed something, "—your true name is outside your language anyway, Leo."
Cold dropped into Leo's stomach. He pressed his tongue behind his teeth, the way Yara had taught him. Don't let the name reach the tongue. Don't answer.
Yara said softly, "It… it's the same one."
Maera caught the word. "Yes," she said. "And why is it here?"
The shadow's threaded shape slid a little farther into the moonlit cut—not walking, as if it had been dragged. One edge of its shadow passed near the chalk snare with Dominion's eye, and the chalk line trembled faintly, as if someone had read it.
"Because you shook the knot," the voice said calmly. "And where a knot shifts, old threads wake."
Inside the box in Kerin's hands, the knocking sped up, as though it, too, was listening.
*Tap… tap-tap… tap-tap-tap…*
Without looking at Kerin, Maera said, "You won't put the box down. And you won't try to open it. If it wants you to set it down, that's exactly why you won't."
Kerin cleared his throat. "I—I won't."
Leo felt that Kerin was telling the truth. And when the truth is spoken, sometimes things grow quieter for a while. The box's knocking slowed for a beat.
The shadow tasted that moment. "Good," it said. "Your friend still has a little spine left."
A flash of anger crossed Maera's face. "We won't bargain."
"I didn't ask for a bargain," the shadow said. "I'm making an offer. Learn the difference, seam-woman."
Maera's eyes narrowed—not at the title, but at the certainty inside it. As if this thing knew her. Her old stitches, her old work, her old sins.
"You know me," Maera said.
"I know threads," the shadow replied. "And your thread… has passed through many places."
Yara took one step forward—very slowly—and kept her candle covered in her palm. "You came to the wall of names," she said. "You scraped my… my—" She stopped, and for a moment there was emptiness in her eyes, then she clenched her teeth, "—you scraped someone's name."
The shadow breathed a laugh. "You don't remember, and still you're trying to save it. How sweet."
Yara's face turned to stone. "Don't call it 'sweet.'"
Maera said, sharp and practical, "Why is it stopping us here? If it wants the box, why doesn't it just take it?"
A faint tremor ran through the shadow's thread-shape, as if it enjoyed the "why not."
"Because I'm not fully *here* yet," it said. "I am a hole, not a body. I am breath, not flesh. I am a line—and lines don't move until someone pulls them and gives them *direction*."
Its voice dropped. "And what you're holding… is direction."
The box.
Kerin lifted it a little without meaning to—as if it were a shield. The box was cold, but now that cold wasn't affecting Kerin; it was making Kerin's muscles *obedient*. As if the metal had its own pressure.
Leo suddenly understood: this thing wasn't only playing with him. It was playing with all of them—through their smallest reactions, through their fear.
And then above—beyond the warehouse's wooden roof—came a distant, heavy rumble. Not of rain. Of threads.
That impossible scent spread through the air again: rain that hasn't happened, and yet insists it has.
Maera tilted her head up. Her eyes measured the cracks between the roof planks. "Threadfall," she said quietly.
Yara's fingers moved on their own to the candle's mark. "Not yet," she whispered. "Not this soon…"
The shadow seemed to breathe in satisfaction at the word. "Yes," it said. "Now."
From the gaps in the wooden roof, the first shimmering filament fell—so thin, like a hair—and as it fell it *rippled* in the air. It wasn't ordinary dust. It was **thread**, and it carried a faint light, as if moonlight had birthed it.
The thread fell onto the floor—and didn't stop on the floor. It slipped into a crack between the boards, as if there were a seam in the wood and it had found its place there.
Then a second thread fell.
Then a third.
And then suddenly it felt as if night had begun to run its fingers over the warehouse—rain of threads, thin, silent, shining.
Kerin tried to step back in panic, but his heel landed on the chalk pattern. The pattern flashed for an instant—the snare with Dominion's eye—as if it recognized the threads and wanted to "hook" them.
Maera snapped, "Move your foot!"
Kerin jerked his foot away, and in that same moment a thread fell onto his shoulder.
It touched—only touched—and Kerin's face changed.
His eyes widened. His breath stopped. And from his lips, very softly, came: "I… can see…"
Leo stared at him. "What do you see?"
Kerin's gaze was fixed on the air—empty spaces—where Leo could see nothing. Kerin said, very slowly, as if he couldn't believe it himself, "Lines. Thin lines… around you."
Cold panic rose in Leo. The thread was giving Kerin seam-sight—temporary, dangerous—but it was exactly what made the story denser: now Kerin, too, could see things that should not be seen.
Yara said quickly, "Don't touch that thread. Get it off your skin."
Kerin raised his hand to pull it away. The thread didn't come onto his fingers—it *passed through* them, as if it weren't matter but a rule. Kerin panicked, shook his arm, and the thread rippled through the air and caught on a nearby wooden beam.
On the beam, in that exact place, a thin black line appeared—like a burned stitch. And along the edge of that line, the wood seemed to "breathe" for an instant.
Maera clenched her teeth. "Threads leave marks on things," she said. "And some marks… become doors."
The shadow watched it all, and there was clear delight in its whisper. "Look," it said. "Now you can see too. For a little while. And in a little while… you'll lose something."
Yara's face hardened. "Don't bargain with threads," she told Kerin. "They don't tell you the price. They just take."
Leo watched the threads fall—or rather, he *felt* them. The mark on his wrist reacted to every thread, as if some needle inside him recognized them and turned on its own. And along with that, the ash of his true name… grew denser and denser. As if each thread was adding one more stroke of one more letter inside him.
Maera made her decision. "We won't stay here."
"Where?" Kerin asked frantically, his eyes still caught in the air's lines.
Maera pointed to one side of the warehouse—where there was a double set of wooden doors. "Toward the docks. Open air. The more enclosed you are, the more threads will collect."
Yara immediately said, "Threadfall in open air—"
"At least there won't be walls of names there," Maera cut in. "And inspectors' oaths hold better on stone."
Leo understood what Maera meant: an oath can be written in a candle's belly. Patterns have already been drawn in the warehouse. Outside—on the open docks—less writing, more chaos. And chaos sometimes saves you.
But threads were still falling from the beams above. One thread passed near Maera's needle, and her needle flashed blue for an instant—as if the thread had written "something" into the metal. Maera jerked the needle away at once, as if she'd touched fire.
"Move," she said again, and this time it was an order.
They surged forward—and then, near the chalk snare on the floor, the notched rod *moved* on its own.
Very slightly, as if someone had touched it from far away.
Then a pale glow ran through the rod's grooves.
And with it, somewhere in the warehouse, wood made a single *click*—as if a hidden door had changed its latch.
Yara held her breath. "Someone set this up in advance."
Maera's gaze went to the chalk snare—Dominion's eye—and there was icy disgust in her voice. "This place is a trap."
The shadow said softly, "Now you understand."
And then—without footsteps—the fifth shadow *slid* between their shadows. The blade of moonlight cut past its edge, and Leo saw it: part of the shadow climbed the wall, then onto a roof beam, then back to the floor—as if this thing didn't obey gravity, only the direction of threads.
Its whisper reached Leo's ear, very close:
"Your true name… shall I give it to you?"
Inside Leo, the ash leapt. His tongue moved forward on its own—like showing food to the starving. He bit his tongue. Pain flared. Still the ash boiled.
Yara grabbed Leo's wrist—this time truly grabbed it—and though her voice trembled, it was steady. "Don't," she said. "Whatever it offers, don't."
Maera looked at Kerin. "Can you drop the box?"
Kerin said fearfully, "No—" and then he startled at his own words, because that "no" wasn't a choice; it was a *truth*. "It's… like it's holding my hand."
Maera's eyes narrowed. "Fine. Then we take it with us."
Yara quickly let wax drip from her candle and drew two small marks around Kerin's wrists—not touching skin, just in the air, like a light ring of names. "It'll loosen the grip a little," she said. "But the price—"
"Later," Maera repeated—the same sentence she'd said before.
They ran for the warehouse doors. Threads kept falling on them. One thread snagged in Leo's hair—and inside his head a scene flashed for an instant: the Chart-Hall table, his rough paper, and his own hand… writing without a pen. The vision came and went, but it carried a small loss with it: he could no longer remember what his mother's voice might have sounded like—not even the imagined version of it. Only emptiness.
Leo's steps faltered.
Maera caught him. "Don't stop," she said, with the kind of hardness only the experienced have—those who know what happens when you stop.
At the doors, Maera drove a quick stitch into the air—above the latch. The latch "accepted" it and opened. The wooden panels met the cold outside air and groaned.
Outside was the docks at night—but not a normal night.
The sky-wound had split open overhead, and Threadfall was pouring down over the entire South Ward. Shimmering filaments in the air—thin, dancing—and wherever they landed, small wrong changes appeared in the world: here and there, water turning black for a heartbeat; somewhere, a man's voice vanishing for one second; somewhere, a lantern flame turning blue.
The light veil of Hushfall still hung there—pressing down on words—but Threadfall sat above even that. It didn't fall on speech; it fell on *cause*.
People were on the docks—some running, some frozen—shaking falling threads from their hands and clothes. Someone looked like they were screaming, but only half the sound came out. Someone tried to call their own name and stopped midway, as if the second half of the name simply wouldn't come to mind.
Kerin clutched the box tight. The knocking inside the box matched Threadfall's rhythm—like two pieces of music recognizing each other.
*Tap… tap-tap…*
The shadow—that thread-made thing—did not cross the warehouse threshold. It only stopped at the *edge* of the sill, as if some rule of open air held it back. But its voice still reached them outside, thin and certain:
"Run," it said. "Running is a thread too."
Without answering, Maera drove them into the dock crowd—where falling threads were licking away at people's identities. As she walked, Yara twisted and lit her candle's wick—only a tiny flame—and, counting her breaths, kept a ring of names held around that flame, as if she were protecting her own identity.
And Leo… Leo looked up at the sky—only a glance—and in that glance it felt as if the sky-wound was *watching*.
Not like a giant eye, but like a giant loom—broken—whose broken teeth let threads spill through, and below, choose someone's name.
The mark on his wrist flared.
Inside him, the ash of his true name took on the shape of a letter—so clear that Leo felt he would speak it now, whether he wanted to or not.
And at that moment, in Kerin's hands, on the box's surface—for the first time—the metal thread-sigil began to *open*, as if a fine seam were loosening.
The line of the lid lifted by the width of a hair.
A thin light slipped out from within—thread-like light—and that light connected straight to the mark on Leo's wrist.
Maera saw it, and for the first time there was plain fear in her voice:
"No… stop it—"
But Leo hadn't touched the box.
And yet the box was opening.
And with the light, from inside came a very slow, very familiar whisper—a whisper that could pick you out even in a crowd:
"Now… speak."