Stonefold's veins are colder now. Or maybe it's just me.
The mask clings to my face, every breath shallow against the leather. The world looks different through its narrow eye-slits — Sharper. Harder. As if mercy itself has been shaved away.
The address burns in my mind. A house tucked deep in the Weaver's End — where Stonefold forgets even its own name.
The target?
A man who once betrayed the Threadless. A merchant who sold names to the City Watch in exchange for protection. Half a dozen operatives dead because of him.
Tonight, I'm supposed to make sure he never whispers again.
The coin Wren gave me is a small, warm weight against my ribs.
I tell myself it doesn't matter. That kindness has no place in the work I chose.
But the lie tastes bitter in my mouth.
The house leans like a drunk against the gutter. A flickering oil lamp struggles against the fog.
I watch the door for a long time. No guards. No traps. The man inside is so sure of his safety, he didn't even bother to lock it.
It would be easy.
Slip in. End it. Another thread cut clean.
But my hand hesitates on the door.
Because for the first time — truly the first time — I wonder:
If I cross this line, can I ever come back? Or does the mask only fit tighter with every kill?
I hear movement inside — a cough. The creak of a chair. A life unfolding in quiet, simple moments.
He's not a monster tonight. Just a man trying to survive the way everyone else does in Stonefold — ugly, desperate, afraid.
A life like Wren's. Like mine.
My fingers tighten around the hilt of the blade hidden beneath my cloak.
One choice. One moment.
And the boy who steps away from this door — whether with blood on his hands or not — will never be the same.
I can feel the mask waiting. Hungry. Patient. Promising power if I just stop asking questions.
One breath. One choice.