I don't knock.
The door creaks open beneath my hand, hinges groaning like they know what I came to do.
The man inside barely looks up.
He's older than I expected. Gray at the temples. Eyes heavy with things long buried. He sits by a table littered with ink bottles and torn papers, the air thick with dust and something else—*grief.*
"You're here for my throat," he says.
I don't answer.
Just step into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me.
He doesn't reach for a weapon.
Just keeps looking at the flickering candle.
"Let me guess. They told you I sold them out. Got people killed. That I'm a traitor to the Threadless."
I nod once.
"You believe that?"
I pause.
Then shake my head.
"I came to find out *why*."
That earns the smallest smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.
---
He pours himself a drink—pale amber in a cracked glass.
"Twelve years. That's how long I ran with the Threadless. Before Tarn. Before Lira. Back when we thought we were doing something good. Burning the rot out of the city. Stitching something better."
He downs the drink in one swallow.
"Then came the quotas. The missions that didn't make sense. Killing people who were more useful alive. Turning on allies. Sacrificing anyone who asked questions."
He meets my eyes.
"You think Lira chose this life? She was twelve when they took her. Used her. Broke her. Now she breaks others."
A silence sharp enough to cut.
"They keep the city sick so they can sell the cure," he says. "And you... you're just their next scalpel."
---
The ring tightens around my finger.
No heat. No pain.
Just pressure. Like something trying to *wake*.
A whisper brushes my thoughts—not words, not quite.
But *direction.*
Clarity.
It doesn't command.
It shows.
Flashes behind my eyes—
- Lira, younger, standing over a body, hands shaking.
- Tarn pocketing a noble's coin while preaching revolution.
- The "traitor" before me, years ago, stopping a Threadless enforcer from cutting down a child.
None of them are saints.
None of them are monsters.
Just pieces.
Wounded.
Twisting.
---
"What happens now?" he asks.
My blade rests in my coat, untouched.
The mask still clings to my hip.
The ring... *guides me forward.*
"You'll leave this place," I say. "You'll vanish. Somewhere the Threadless can't reach. And if they ask—I'll lie."
He studies me. Not with hope.
With disbelief.
"You're not one of them, are you?"
I look down at my hand.
At the ring.
"No," I say quietly. "I'm something else."
---
Outside, the night yawns wide.
I don't feel victorious.
I feel *changed.*
The mask no longer feels like a weapon.
The ring no longer feels like a curse.
Together... they feel like a compass.