Following a man through the crowded streets of the capital was an art Catherine had mastered since childhood. It was the art of being invisible, of being a ghost.
It required walking without a sound, melting into the crowd like a drop of water in a river, becoming so insignificant that the gazes of others pass right through you without ever stopping. Once, it was a survival skill, a way to escape predators. Today, she was using it to become one.
The man, her target, walked with a quick, nervous stride, as if he feared his own secrets were tailing him. Catherine maintained a safe distance, using merchant stalls and groups of passersby as successive screens.
The pain behind her eyes was a constant presence, a white-hot nail she had to learn to ignore. She only activated her vision in brief pulses, lest the flood of information overwhelm her or drain her of her meager energy.
Each pulse was a revelation.
She saw him stop before the imposing facade of the Scriptorium, the city's great repository of records. The mold-green thread of his ambition flared, vibrating with an almost painful desire as he gazed at the bronze doors. So that was where he worked.
A clerk. A man who spent his life surrounded by the secrets of others: property deeds, guild contracts, noble genealogies. A mine of information. The value of her target had just skyrocketed.
Another, better-dressed man called out to him. "Mathieu! What a surprise, seeing you loiter about!"
Catherine froze near a spice stall, the sharp scent of cumin masking her presence. She couldn't hear the reply, but she could see.
The well-dressed man's thread of recognition pulsed toward her target. Mathieu. He had a name. Mathieu's green thread of ambition wavered, tinged with a jaundiced yellow as he answered. The exchange was brief.
Mathieu emerged from it with his back more stooped, his step less sure. He was not respected by his peers. Another crack in his armor.
For hours, she waited. The cold intensified, but Catherine welcomed it. The cold kept her mind sharp, her determination honed.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the cobblestones, the doors of the Scriptorium opened, releasing a stream of officials. Mathieu was among them, his shoulders slumped with the fatigue of a day's work.
He did not go straight home. His path took him through a less-frequented square, near the moneylenders' district. It was there that luck or perhaps the fate she herself was beginning to weave offered her the missing piece of her puzzle.
A man was waiting in the shadow of an arcade, impeccably dressed in a doublet of dark velvet. He did not look like a ruffian, but the threads emanating from him were the darkest Catherine had ever seen. A thread of obsidian black, cold and hard as glass, connected him directly to Mathieu's heart. It was the debt. Around this main thread swirled whorls of venomous purple, the color of power wielded with cruelty.
The man in velvet stepped forward, a honeyed smile on his lips. Mathieu froze, his entire body tensing like a wire.
"Mathieu, my friend," the man said, his voice soft but carrying in the evening air. "I was just hoping I'd see you. Time flies, doesn't it? And with it, the patience of my associates."
Catherine was close enough to see the sweat bead on Mathieu's brow, despite the cold. She activated her vision. The black thread of debt pulsed violently, vibrating with pure terror. But another thread, dormant until now, suddenly ignited within Mathieu. It originated in his gut and coiled around the lender like a serpent. It was crimson red, the color of powerless hatred.
"I... I almost have the full amount, Silas," Mathieu stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "Just a few more weeks. There's a promotion on the line..."
The lender, Silas, chuckled. A sound devoid of all warmth. "Promotions, promises... Mathieu, you know I'm fond of you. But friendship doesn't fill the coffers. Friday. The full amount. Otherwise, I fear your wife and your charming children might learn the exact nature of your... unfortunate investments."
Silas placed a hand on Mathieu's shoulder, a falsely friendly gesture that was a pure display of power. Mathieu flinched as if he'd been burned. The thread of hatred became incandescent, but it was chained by the black thread of fear. Silas turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving him alone on the square, broken.
Catherine shrank back into the shadows, her own heart beating with a steady, predatory rhythm. She had everything she needed.
The name: Mathieu. The profession: Clerk at the Scriptorium, with access to secrets. The ambition: A promotion, recognition. The weakness: A crushing debt to a man named Silas. The secret engine: Not just fear, but a deep-seated hatred and humiliated pride.
Mathieu didn't just want money to repay his debt. He desperately desired to annihilate the man who held his leash. He didn't just want to escape the trap; he wanted the power to destroy it.
And Catherine, the shivering shadow watching him from across the square, had just understood what kind of salvation she was going to offer him. Not the salvation of a full purse, but the far more intoxicating one of revenge. She wasn't going to give him a crutch. She was going to forge him a sword, and ensure that it was her hand guiding the pommel.