They said the mist whispered things—

  unthreaded time,

  unraveled names.

  Trident’s Treasures clawed at the edge of the Skein, a ramshackle building growing straight from the district’s grime. From a distance, it looked like any other crumbling wreck—patched together with mismatched wood and rusted metal, its windows like hollow eyes staring into the endless gray twilight. A faded sign hung crooked above the entrance, its peeling letters barely visible:

  BUY. SALE. TRADE.

  The whole place leaned like it was ready to collapse, a perfect mirror of the chaos inside.

  Stepping through the doorway felt like diving into a dim, grimy world of forgotten junk and whispered deals. The stench of cheap polish, musty fabric, and something vaguely metallic turned Dani’s stomach.

  In the front room, there was a maze of cluttered shelves and overflowing bins. Tarnished jewelry, chipped pottery, and worn tools spilled across every surface. Faded tapestries hung from the ceiling, their colors dulled and threads fraying, casting warped shadows in the flickering lamplight.

  Behind the counter, Viper sifted through a pile of rings without looking up. “Grosse wasn’t happy you gave me the slip.”

  “Who could’ve guessed the Guardians would actually do their jobs that day?” Dani shrugged, edging toward the back.

  “Mmhmm.” The sound held no conviction. “He said he ain’t seeing nobody without an appointment.”

  “Just dropping off a delivery,” she called, pushing through the tattered curtain behind the counter.

  The back office was even dimmer, lit by a single oil lamp casting a sickly glow across the rough-hewn walls. The air buzzed with that too-quiet feeling, like someone was watching.

  Rook, a hulking brute with arms like tree trunks, hunched in the corner, sharpening a wicked-looking knife. The rasp of metal on stone echoed through the room, an ominous rhythm beneath the whispering dark. A battered table stood in the center, cluttered with maps and odd tools. Worn leather straps dangled from wall hooks.

  “Grosse’s in his office,” Rook grunted, voice like gravel.

  Dani nodded, ignoring the chill that crept down her spine. Vann’s office sat at the far end, its door heavy and scarred like an old warrior’s face. She opened it and slipped inside.

  Vann Grosse was the Outer Ring’s twisted benefactor, a figure whose shadow stretched long over Tenturia’s orphans. He gave them food, shelter, and a taste of safety. A fragile contrast to the streets.

  But his generosity came with chains. He bound them in debts they could never fully repay, loyalty enforced by the hand that fed. He made them feel protected, even as they danced along the edge of his control.

  To Dani, he was a necessary evil: lifeline and leash, a reminder that survival here meant choosing your prison.

  The wooden door creaked shut behind her. Vann sat behind a desk buried in maps, papers, and strange metallic gadgets. His hawk-eyed stare fixed on her.

  “Ah, Dani. You’ve returned.” His voice was slick, like his greasy hair. Silver teeth glinted in the candlelight as he adjusted the cufflinks of his cheap suit.

  She tossed a pouch onto the desk.

  Vann’s long, knotted fingers slid toward it. Coins spilled out, and a faint frown pinched the skin around his eyes. “And the rest?” he asked, voice smooth but sharp.

  Dani kept her expression blank. “That’s all there was. Just coins.”

  A dry rustling stirred in the corner. “The purse was meant to contain something of significant value,” rasped a voice.

  Arachne stepped from the shadows—wiry and wrapped in dark, tattered cloth. His movements were too smooth, too silent. His spider-like eyes gleamed in the dim light, reflecting the lamp like polished obsidian.

  “Maybe your informant got it wrong,” Dani said, glancing his way.

  “Perhaps,” Vann murmured. “Or perhaps you’re holding somethingback.”

  He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his eyes steady and quiet.

  “You know what ash teaches us?” he said. “That anything can be built again. If you have the tools. And if people remember who gave them.”

  Dani’s mouth twitched. “Was that a threat or a history lesson?”

  “A reminder,” he said. “The Skein didn’t pull itself from the rubble.”

  Dani raised her hands, palms out. “Hey, I don’t play politics. I’m a snatch-and-grab girl, just like you taught me.”

  “Don’t forget your debts,” Vann hissed.

  She stepped backward, flashing both of them a crooked grin. “I’m working on something that’ll settle the score, old timer. Don’t sweat it.”

  Her voice was so confident, she almost believed it.

  On her way out she stopped at the counter to speak with Viper, “Spread the word that I am looking for a few bodies to run a Cradlebreak in the District.”

  “I’m sure the Tangle will line up to help you out of the goodness of their hearts.” Viper halfway looked up with an amused expression. “Don’t suppose you have coin for this venture?”

  Dani slid her newly acquired accessory from her wrist, “Maybe this will buy me some goodwill.”

  Viper rolled her eyes, but slid the watch behind the counter. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  ***

  Dani made her way to the opposite side of the Skein, and entered the portion of it known as The Hank. Whereas the Skein held the loose resemblance of society, The Hank was a free-for-all ghetto.

  The flickering lamplight threw long, twitchy shadows across the jumbled mess of gears and springs that littered the floor of The Gear & Cog.

  Dani picked her way through the workshop, careful with her steps due to the crunch of metal shavings under her boots. The unique, guttural fragrance of machine oil and the rhythmic whir of a half-assembled clockwork device filled the space.

  She found Bruno hunched over a workbench in a dimly lit alcove, his fingers moving with practiced ease over a tiny gear. Worn, brass-rimmed goggles rested on his forehead, pushed up from his eyes, catching the lamplight.

  "Bruno," she said, her voice low, "I need some information."

  He looked up, eyes narrowing; his face lit by the faint glow of a nearby lamp.

  "I don’t know nothing about nobody."

  Dani slid a few coins across the workbench, their metallic glint catching the light. "Consider it a down payment."

  Bruno eyed the coins, then back to Dani. "What do you want to know?"

  “I need a name,” Dani said, sliding the coins across. “Heavyset guy, cropped light hair. Dresses like he’s important—fitted waistcoats, too much jewelry. Signet ring on his right hand…”

  She imitated a motion of his. “And he constantly adjusted it, like he had a tic.”

  She paused, tilting her head slightly, thinking.

  “Lives behind the gates on the Eastside of the Weaver’s District…”

  “Oh! And he’s got a sweet tooth. I watched him clear out a bakery like it was his last meal.”

  Bruno chuckled, wiping his oily hands on a rag. "Sounds like Baron Holt. Planning to lift his wallet?"

  Dani leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "Something like that. I need his routine, his contacts, anything useful."

  Bruno whistled softly. "Holt, huh? Big score. But yeah, I can dig up some dirt."

  He paused, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. "For a price, of course."

  Dani tossed a few more coins onto the workbench, the dull clink echoing in the quiet alcove. "I don’t know nothing about nobody." She mimicked him in a mocking voice.

  Bruno grinned, a flash of sharp teeth in the dim light. He scooped up the coins, his fingers quick and nimble.

  "A few days," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper.

  "And I'll have everything on Holt. His movements, his habits, even the name of his house cat, if that’ll help.”

  He paused, flipping one of the coins between his fingers.

  “Oh, and a little bonus between friends,” he added with a glint in his eye. “There's whispers about Holt and the Core. Might be nothing, might not."

  Dani scoffed, rolling her eyes. "The Core? That's just old stories to keep kids in line at Temple."

  "Maybe. But rumors are rumors, and sometimes they lead to real coin.” Bruno shrugged. “Besides, even if they're just a bunch of nutjobs, Holt mixed up with them could mean trouble."

  Dani nodded, an ember of excitement sparking despite her skepticism. "Good. I'll be back in a few days."

  She slipped through the maze of half-assembled machines, the smell of oil trailing her into the dusk. The key was still a mystery, but with Bruno, she might finally start unlocking it.

  And the Core?

  She didn’t believe in ghosts or gods. But she’d learned to pay attention when old names started creeping out of the cracks.

  ***

  The next morning, Dani perched on a stool in Dust & Echoes, her feet swinging in the air as she tore into a breakfast of crusty bread and mushrooms. She'd scored the food and brought some for Lucas, as a quiet "thank you" for his help the day before.

  Dani watched as Lucas nibbled on his bread, eyes scanning the shelves like they held some long-lost secret. He muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that?” she asked, mouth half-full of pilfered dough.

  “I’m looking for a book I had on old transport systems,” he said absently, running his finger along the dusty spines. “There used to be a pulley network above the Bazaar. There were ropes, platforms, even baskets big enough to ferry goods between buildings. Merchants used it. Smugglers probably more.”

  Dani raised a brow. “Bet they were faster than fighting through these crowds.”

  Lucas offered a half-smile. “Only if the ropes didn’t snap mid-ride.”

  The shelves were coated in a thick layer of grime—hence the shop’s name—but the place felt safe, like a hideout. It was a welcome break from the Skein’s chaos, the Bazaar’s hustle, and the judgment of the Inner Rings.

  “Hey,” she said, leaning against the counter, “you ever heard of the Core?”

  Lucas's eyes remained fixed on the books, and he replied with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Dabbling in urban legends, are we?"

  Dani shrugged, swallowing a mouthful. "Just some rumors floating around. Sounds a bit unhinged, but I figured I'd ask."

  “It stands for The Cult of Restoration of Tenturia.”

  “That name’s a bit on the nose…”

  Lucas snorted, but then his voice softened.. “The Core’s just a name now,” he added quietly. “But once... they really thought they could fix things.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Dani looked at him sharply, but he didn’t elaborate. Just stared at the shelves, lost in thought.

  “It’s an interesting concept, though, isn’t it? To restore,” Lucas said, finally pulling a book from the shelf. He brushed the cover with his sleeve, sending a puff of dust into the air.

  “I have a bookbinder who repairs some of these old volumes. First thing he does is unravel the binding, then reassembles it with something stronger.”

  He glanced over at her. “Perhaps it’s the same with the world.”

  Dani scoffed. “Great. Just bind up the apocalypse in a new cover and call it a fairy tale.”

  Lucas offered a small smile. “You don’t believe it’s possible.”

  “Believe?” She shrugged, leaning back on the stool. “I don’t even believe my drinking water’s clean half the time.”

  She took another bite, more to fill the silence than her stomach.

  “Let me ask you something, Dani,” Lucas said, as he began thumbing through the book. “Where’d you sleep last night?”

  “In an alley near Grosse’s,” she said with a shrug. “It was dry enough.”

  Lucas turned a page with exaggerated care. “You could’ve come here.”

  “And miss out on cobblestones and the romantic stench of wet burlap?” She smirked. “Didn’t want to spoil myself.”

  Lucas gave a half-laugh. “That’s not the reason.”

  “You sure? Maybe I just like being difficult.”

  Dani tilted her head, still smiling.

  Lucas set the book down, carefully marking the page with a scrap of ribbon. He leaned back on the old stool, arms crossed, studying her like a puzzle.

  “I’m going to remind you,” he said, “that surviving isn’t the same as living.”

  “Spare me the philosophy,” Dani scoffed and shoved a bit of toast into her mouth. “I’m doing fine.”

  “Fine,” he echoed softly. “That’s what people say when they’ve forgotten what good feels like.”

  She met his gaze, still chewing. “You’re confusing me with someone who had that luxury.”

  Silence settled between them. It wasn’t empty, but it was dense—full of things they weren’t saying. Dust motes drifted in the window light, catching on the spines of long-forgotten books.

  Lucas reached for his tea, the cup rattling faintly in its saucer.

  “You’re not hopeless, Dani. Just tired. And tired people tend to stop looking for light.”

  Dani leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest. “You always talk like a sermon.”

  “And you dodge like it’s a virtue,” he said, not unkindly.

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  A beat passed.

  "And breakfast? Where did you get it?"

  "…Bought it," she lied, avoiding his eyes.

  Lucas grinned, seeing right through her.

  "If there aren’t enough beds in the city and food has to be cultivated underground, is it really so absurd to contemplate a better world?"

  Dani made a face. “Doesn’t mean I buy it.”

  "And what if," Lucas said, his voice low and earnest, "there was a means to restore it all? The light, the color, the magic?"

  Dani frowned, her skepticism battling with an unfamiliar feeling. "That's impossible."

  “Is it?” Lucas asked, his voice rising with sudden energy. “Or is it just…forgotten? The Core might not be what it was, but what if someone out there still remembers how to fix it? What if the knowledge is still waiting, buried, alive—”

  Dani blinked, caught off guard. She’d never heard him sound like that.

  He caught himself and exhaled. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s foolish. But I’d rather believe there’s still a way.”

  "And the 'unraveling' part?"

  He paused, allowing his words to resonate. "I believe the Prime Weavers left us something. A way to mend the world. They must have."

  Dani shifted uncomfortably. She'd always dismissed the Weavers as fanatics and the Core as a fable, but Lucas's words, his quiet conviction, were unsettling.

  “But… what if they’re wrong?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Lucas gave a slow, sad smile. “Then, Dani, we’re left with the world as it is.”

  He looked around the shop—coated shelves, fading light, and the hush between books. “But if they’re right… even a chance?”

  He met her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be worth finding out?”

  He rose from his stool with a quiet groan and made his way to the back shelf, rummaging through a scatter of leather-bound folios and yellowed maps. Dust curled in the sunlight, stirring in his wake.

  After a moment, he returned with a slender book wrapped in soft cloth.

  He set it on the table beside her, unwrapping it with care. The cover was ash-gray leather, slightly warped from time and weather. The spine had been stitched together with fine copper thread, careful and deliberate.

  “You remember this?”

  Dani’s stomach tensed. She did.

  “I thought you’d given it away,” she muttered. “Or pulled it apart for binding scraps.”

  Lucas raised an eyebrow as he eased back onto his stool. “Tempting,” he said. “But I figured you might come back for it.”

  She glanced at the cover, then looked away. Whispers and Wanderings: A Collection of Myths. The title was barely visible beneath the scuffs and grime.

  She’d taken it from the Temple archive years ago, on a whim more than a plan. The tales of forgotten gods and half-true histories, buried between sanctioned texts, reminded her of a time before, when she pretended the gods were listening.

  At the time, she told herself she didn’t care. She’d left it behind one night when her satchel tore and assumed Lucas would use it for kindling.

  “You stitched it,” she said quietly.

  “Someone had to,” he said, not quite smiling. “Especially this one.” He flipped the book open and turned a few pages with practiced fingers until the inked title appeared: The Song of the Hallowreach.

  Dani stared at the words. The script was strange and familiar all at once, like something heard in a dream. She’d once known the first verse by heart.

  There was once a girl who lived on the edge of the Outer Fray…

  “You used to ask me to read it,” Lucas said, voice low. “Back when you thought stories might still be true.”

  Dani didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the page, but her focus had slipped. Something ached in her chest, dull and unspoken.

  “I was a kid.”

  “You were searching,” he said gently. “You still are.”

  She reached out and traced the edge of the page with her thumb where she’d torn the corner of it. She remembered now, trying to shut the book on a sentence she didn’t want to finish.

  “Thanks,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “Don’t thank me.” Lucas nodded. “Just don’t forget the difference between a map and a myth.”

  “One tells you where you’re going. The other tells you who you are.”

  She didn’t answer. Just stood, slipping the book into her satchel with more care than she’d meant to. The leather was cool against her fingertips, the copper thread catching a flash of light as she closed the flap.

  She crossed the threshold, her silence matching the broken bell over the door. Outside, Tenturia greeted her with its usual breath of stone, soot, and rain.

  She kept walking.

  She was used to leaving things behind.

  But for some reason, she didn’t walk as fast as usual.

  And she didn’t let herself look back.

  ***

  The Market gave way to silence.

  Dani moved quickly, past shuttered stalls and faded pennants, weaving through the thinning crowd until the sounds of barter and barking dogs faded behind her. She didn’t glance back toward Dust & Echoes, though the weight of the book pressed insistently against her side.

  She passed through an old iron archway, its filigree chipped and rusting, and stepped into the Weaver’s District.

  The change was immediate.

  The cobblestones here were smooth and pale, and scrubbed clean. High iron gates flanked the walkways, twisted into the shapes of threads, needles, and loomwork. Courtyards lay hidden behind ivy-streaked walls, the air tinged with the scent of dried herbs and wet stone.

  It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that listened back.

  Dani adjusted her stride, remaining alert. This wasn’t the Skein, where chaos gave her cover. Here, every window had a watcher. Every locked door belonged to someone with enough power to make people disappear with a word.

  Pulling her cloak tight, she moved through the district like a shadow, her eyes always scanning. She wasn't here to gawk at the buildings or the gardens; she was scoping out escape routes.

  The Baron's place, a huge house of dark wood and stained glass, was in the middle of a nearby gated community, and she needed to know every alley, every shortcut, and every place to hide.

  The Weaver's Temple, a towering gray stone building, loomed over the square. Its front was covered in intricate carvings and massive statues of the Prime Weavers. As she approached the temple, she noticed a group of people gathered in a courtyard, their faces etched with a serene focus.

  They were participating in a communal ceremony. Each person held a cord or thread, knotted and tangled. With slow, deliberate movements, they began to unravel the knots, their fingers tracing the intricate patterns, their expressions reflecting a mix of concentration and release.

  Dani watched, a curious observer amidst the devout. She had never been one for prayers or ceremonies, but there was something strangely compelling about this simple act. The unraveling of the knots seemed to symbolize something.

  A stray thread fluttered near her foot, black-dyed silk, knotted at one end, loose at the other. On impulse, she crouched and picked it up, running it between her fingers. The silk was soft, worn, and felt familiar in her grasp.

  She tried to tie it into a simple prayer loop, the way she’d seen the others do, but the knot slipped loose, twice, then three times. Her hands were steady, but the thread refused to hold.

  A low laugh escaped her. “Figures.”

  She tucked the thread into her pocket without knowing why.

  The temple doors stood partially open, letting flickering candlelight spill onto the worn stone steps. From within, the low murmur of a hymn echoed softly, blending with the distant city noise.

  For a moment, Dani thought she saw a figure moving inside, a dark silhouette against the candlelit interior.

  A hooded acolyte stood by the rows of offering candles, head bowed in silence. He hesitated, his fingers grazing a wooden prayer stand, before lowering himself onto a pew.

  Dani scoffed to herself. What was the point of sitting there in the dark, whispering to gods who never answered?

  Shaking off the thought, she turned her attention back to the ceremony in the courtyard. The people here wanted to believe in something. Maybe that was the only difference between them.

  That was when the voice startled her.

  “Intriguing, isn’t it?”

  Dani tensed and turned, her hand instinctively shifting toward the knife hidden at her hip. An old woman stood beside her, watching the ceremony with knowing eyes. Her face was lined, but her gaze was sharp and assessing. She wore a flowing robe of deep gray, its embroidery glinting in the dim light.

  “They’re… something,” Dani said, nodding toward the statues, keeping her tone light.

  “They are,” The woman chuckled. “Care to join us?”

  Dani huffed. “Not really my thing.”

  The woman’s smile didn’t waver. “I assumed as much.”

  Caught off guard, Dani quickly tried to change the subject. "Are you like a priestess or something?"

  “Something like that.” The woman folded her hands in front of her. “I’m Belacqua. I serve on the Council of High Weavers.”

  “Sounds important.”

  Belacqua chuckled again, the sound rich and amused. “Only if you believe in titles.”

  Dani crossed her arms. “So, what’s the deal with the knots?”

  “It’s a way to reflect,” Belacqua said, her gaze following the slow, deliberate hands in the courtyard. “To acknowledge struggle. And, when possible, to let it go.”

  Dani didn’t respond. She just raised an eyebrow.

  Belacqua chuckled. “I know how it sounds.” She shrugged. “But rituals aren’t just gestures. They’re reminders. Sometimes the only way to make the invisible real.”

  She gave Dani a quick wink. “Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

  Dani frowned.

  “That’s nice and all, but what about the real world? The people out there fighting to survive?” She gestured to the sky, where ash swirled in lazy spirals. “How do knots and prayers help them?”

  Belacqua nodded, as if she had expected the question.

  “Sometimes, they don’t. Not directly.” Belacqua met her gaze without flinching. “But people need hope, even when the world offers them none.”

  Dani looked away. “But what if it’s not enough?”

  She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  The words settled wrong, caught in her chest brittle and unwelcome.

  But faith didn’t keep you alive. It didn’t keep your stomach filled or your bed dry. Still, maybe it gave people a sense of control. A way to navigate the chaos.

  Belacqua's eyes softened. "Then we keep weaving, child. Thread by thread, hope by hope, until the Tapestry of Tenturia is restored again."

  Dani suddenly felt exposed, standing in the open like that, mid-conversation with the priestess. There were too many windows with too many watchers.

  Still, she didn’t walk away.

  "Restore… You know, that word keeps surfacing. The streets are talking a lot about ‘Restoration’."

  Belacqua studied her, then smiled knowingly. “Ah. The Core.”

  Dani kept her expression carefully blank. “So, you know about them.”

  “Of course.” Belacqua’s smile faded. “They seek to unravel, not restore. Change is necessary, but their methods are dangerous.”

  Dani turned this over in her mind.

  Lucas had spoken of them, whispered their name like a promise. But Belacqua spoke it like a warning.

  The older woman placed a hand on Dani’s shoulder, her touch was light but firm. “I enjoyed our talk. Perhaps one day, you’ll see what’s truly behind these ‘knots and prayers’.”

  With that, she turned and disappeared into the temple, her robes trailing behind her.

  Dani stood still for a moment, her thoughts churning.

  People wanted change. She felt it in the streets. But Belacqua, with her careful words, seemed content to wait.

  Dani wasn’t sure she had that luxury.

  She lingered a moment longer, then turned. The crowd had already moved on. The square was emptying.

  Perhaps no one had the answers. Or, better yet, maybe there were no answers - just a wasteland of the poor and hungry lording over the poorer and the hungrier.

  She pulled her cloak tight and slipped back into the silence.