The knocking from inside the box had stopped.
It wasn't relief. It was like a heart—beating, beating—suddenly starting to *listen*. In the black air beneath the pier, Leo could hear the rough edge of his own breath inside his ears; and behind that edge, his true name—like ash—sat lodged in his throat, ready to rise.
Up on the planks, footsteps were close now—disciplined, in rhythm. A crowd doesn't walk like that. And with them, the faint rattle of a notched rod—like someone reading the stitching of the wind.
"Open it."
The stranger's whisper was still in the air, as if he hadn't spoken the word but had *sewn* it in. And with that stitch, the lid-line of the box—cracked open by a hair—opened to the width of a line—very thin, but clear. From inside, a threadlike light *throbbed* outward.
Near Leo's throat, that same straight, wrong line floated in the air—like a fine needle pulling him toward his own voice.
Yara's seal—made of blood and candlewax—glimmered faintly in front of Leo's breath. It no longer felt like a shield; it felt like a **door latch**—and if it broke, the words would get out.
Maera didn't touch Leo's wrist, but her grip tightened on his shoulder. "Listen," she said very softly. "Whatever happens now will start from your mouth. Don't let it start."
Leo nodded, and there was fear in the motion. He wanted to say—*I'm trying*—but the little bridge between "I" and "why" had already lifted inside him. A few steps in the world of words had gone missing.
Kerin sat with the box braced on his knees. His fingers were white. His eyes—under the effect of the Threadfall—were still "seeing" the lines in the air. He stared up toward the planks as if, with every step, he could read the wave of thread too.
"There are two," Kerin whispered. "No… three."
"Three?" Maera asked without turning.
Kerin swallowed. "One walks… heavy. Around him the threads are so straight, it's like he's ironed the air. The second—the lead inspector—his threads are clean, but light. The third…" His lips went dry. "Around the third there's no thread—just empty space."
Hushed.
Yara held her breath. "He made it all the way here…"
"The candle-stitching stops him," Maera said, "but Threadfall weakens everything." Her gaze went to the crack between the planks above, where sometimes a shining filament fell and vanished into the black water. "And inspectors… they know how to press on weak things."
The footsteps stopped overhead. Then the rattle of the notched rod came through with sharp clarity—as if he were reading the air directly above their heads.
Then that cold male voice came again—very calm, very close:
"The needle is below."
With that sentence, the mark on Leo's wrist flared once, hard. In his ribs, his heart changed direction—like it was running inward now. And in his throat, the ash of his true name rose—like someone had pinched it with tongs and pulled.
Yara immediately set her palm into the air in front of Leo's mouth—right by the seal—and spoke a breathing pattern. Not words: breath. The air held still for a moment.
"Don't," Yara whispered. "Just… don't."
Leo clenched his teeth. He pressed his tongue behind them. His eyes watered—not from pain, from fear. Because he could feel it: this was less and less about his will. It was becoming a matter of threads.
From above, there was a light *thok* on the wood—someone leaning down and tapping the plank, confirming the spot.
Then—very softly—the lead inspector's voice. The same cropped-hair tone, the same procedural calm:
"Leo Ravel. Put the box out. You come out."
He said "come out" as if it weren't a request but the city's natural law.
A vein of anger tightened in Maera's face. "They're dropping a name-anchor," she said under her breath. "He isn't shaking you—he's binding you."
Kerin whispered, panicked, "What do we do? From here—"
Maera lifted a hand to Kerin—quiet—and with the other drew out her needle. She set the needle's tip into the air near one of the pier's pillars and made a very small stitch—so small a stranger would mistake it for a shift in the wind.
Leo felt it: the tension in the air changed. As if the "hearing" around them dimmed slightly. It wasn't noise. It was a **twist of threads**—as though the path of sound had been bent aside.
"This won't hold long," Maera said. "But we need seconds."
Yara asked softly, "And the box?"
Inside the box, the light throbbed—slow, then fast—like something inside was trying to breathe. The line—the same wrong line—now seemed stuck to the air at Leo's throat, as if it had chosen its target.
Maera looked at Kerin. "Can you keep holding it?"
Kerin nodded—then his eyes widened. "It… it's putting threads into my hands." He stared at his fingers as if seeing them for the first time. "I—I can see the stitching at its edges. Like—like it's getting ready to open itself."
Yara's voice hardened. "Then it's going to open."
Inside Leo, the ash jumped. And with that jump he felt a new loss—tiny, but like a cut. For a moment he couldn't remember which direction "home" was. It was strange, because he was under a pier—and yet the break in direction stabbed him as if someone had pulled a compass-like thing out of him.
A price… even for holding back.
Maera read the change in his eyes. "You're losing something again," she said. "Even just by resisting."
Leo nodded, his throat thick. He couldn't speak, so he simply breathed—slowly, in Yara's pattern.
Between the planks above, a shadow leaned down. A hand—in a glove—slid two fingers through the gap, like someone slipping a hook into a net.
And at that instant a new tautness came into the air—**a thread of command**. As if, without words, an oath had been written: *Come down.*
Leo's body lurched forward for a beat, as if someone had tied a rope around his chest and called him upward.
Yara's seal flared. It blunted the pull a little—not cut, just collided. And with the collision, Yara gasped and shut her eyes, like she'd hurt herself.
"Yara?" Kerin whispered.
Yara opened her eyes. Sweat shone on her face. "The seal… is working," she said, "but… it's eating me."
Maera gritted her teeth. "Then we leave. Now."
"How?" Kerin asked. "Up there—"
Maera pointed toward the water under the pier—black, running. "The current," she said. "The current doesn't honor oaths. Inspectors stand on stone and words. Water… doesn't."
Yara warned at once, "In Threadfall, water—"
"In Threadfall, everything is dangerous," Maera cut in. "At least water will spread the threads out and mess them up."
Leo looked at the water and an old panic rose in him—not of drowning—of **getting lost**. Because in water, direction, name, voice… all get lost quickly.
And then, from inside the box, a whisper came—this time not to Leo, but to Kerin:
"Let… go…"
Kerin clenched his teeth. "No."
The word got out—true. And with the truth, the light inside the box pinched inward for a moment, as if it had tasted the "no" and taken offense. Then it expanded again—and a thin inner filament slipped out from the box's seam, lifted into the air, and leaned toward Leo's wrist.
Yara held her breath. "It's linking him again."
Maera raised her needle and made a hem-stitch in the air in front of the filament—to **turn** it. The filament bent and struck the nearby wooden pillar.
On the pillar, that same black, charred-looking line surfaced—a new mark.
And with the mark… the pillar "breathed."
Leo trembled and whispered, "A door…"
Maera looked at him. "Yes. Every mark is a potential door. And we… are leaving marks."
Above, the cold male voice came again—closer now—and it had lost patience. It had **possession** in it.
"You can't run," the voice said. "Wherever the needle goes, a path will be made there."
With that, there was a sharp clatter in the planks above. Like someone had driven a nail or hook between the boards. And then a strip—very old—lifted slightly.
A gust of air poured down—cold, damp—and with it a shining filament of Threadfall fell and landed directly on Leo's shoulder.
Leo flinched. The filament didn't pierce his skin, but for one instant a vision flashed inside him: a child's hand, knocking on a wall, "tap-tap"—and someone's face… which still didn't form fully this time either, only a shadow where eyes should be.
Then the vision turned to ash. And with the ash, Leo felt he had lost **one morning from his childhood**. Which morning? He didn't know. He only knew: there were fewer mornings now.
His breath broke.
Maera caught him and steadied him. "Water," she ordered. "Now."
Yara shrank her candle flame to a pin—so small it stayed inside her palm. Then she lightly "closed" the seal in front of Leo's breath—as if she'd set a second stitch onto the threshold of his voice.
"If you speak," Yara said very softly, "the word will break. Or return. Or… something else will happen. I don't know."
"No one knows," Maera said flatly. "And that's what's most dangerous."
The three of them edged toward the water. Kerin pressed the box to his chest as if it were alive. Maera went first—finding a place where, under the planks, the current churned least. Yara stayed in the middle, keeping the flame and the breathing pattern from breaking.
Leo stepped into the water. Cold climbed to his knees. The current tugged at his legs like an unseen hand trying to claim him. And with that tug, the thread on his wrist shifted too—as if the binding from above wavered inside the water.
Above, the hole between the planks widened. Someone peered down. In moonlight, it wasn't a face—only the shine of eyes—without smile, without mercy—and the tip of the notched rod.
"There," the lead inspector's voice said. "Under the pier."
Maera clenched her teeth. "Don't drown," she told Leo. "If you drown, the thread will drown too. And if the thread drowns… it'll rise somewhere else."
Leo nodded, shaking.
The moment Kerin stepped into the water he blurted, "I… I can see a line." Fear and wonder both in his voice. "Above the water… a straight line. The same wrong line. It's… giving us direction."
"Map-sickness," Maera whispered. "The box's sickness."
Yara looked at Kerin. "Don't grab it," she warned. "A line isn't a road. It can be a snare."
Kerin gritted his teeth. "Then what do we trust?"
Maera answered, bitterly, "Today? No one. Just… choose the less wrong options."
They began to slide with the current—out from under the pier toward the dock's drainage channels. Above, the inspectors' footsteps broke into a run—disciplined running. With them, the thread of command kept leaning over the water, as if it too wanted to write the current.
And then—inside the box—the light *stilled*.
The throbbing stopped.
So suddenly, like someone had shut off the heart inside.
Kerin froze. "What—"
In the same instant, Leo felt it: the box was no longer holding itself **closed**.
It was… **preparing to open**.
The lid-line lifted by a hair again—then two—then a thin gap. From within that gap, no threadlike light came out. What came out was worse than light:
A **black, fine line**—like ink—floating in the air, moving straight toward Leo's mouth.
Yara's seal flared, as if it recognized the danger. Maera's needle rose into the air—this time not to strike, but to **cut**—and still her hand paused for a beat, as if she remembered what cutting costs.
Above, between the planks, that cold male voice came abruptly, very close—like he'd leaned down directly over them:
"Now you will speak."
And in Leo's throat, the ash of his true name—for the first time—began to change not into letters, but into sound