Tarn sends me on more tasks after that.
Not errands—*hunts*. Secrets. Leverage. Blackmail for sale. One day I'm shadowing a noble's son through graveyard tunnels. The next, I'm slipping powder into a merchant's tea to copy his secret ledger. This is work where a single mistake gets you a knife between the ribs.
But I don't make mistakes.
Still, I can feel it—my limits. No matter how fast, how sharp I am… I'm only one person. One set of eyes. One mind.
I need more.
Not just a partner. A *mirror*—someone who sees what I can't.
And that's when she enters my story.
**Lira.**
It's outside the tannery, near midnight. The air reeks of boiled hides and burnt hair. I'm on the edge of a rooftop, lifting a pouch from a courier—no guards, no seal, too easy.
I should've known better.
Just as my fingers close around the strap, a voice slices through the dark.
"Careful. He's got two more on the roof."
I freeze.
I didn't hear her approach. Didn't see her shadow.
She's crouched above me, balanced on a rusted beam, hood drawn low, short-cropped hair catching a sliver of moonlight. Her eyes are calm. Sharp. Watching everything.
She could've called the guards. Could've watched me walk straight into a trap.
Instead, she helps.
"Cut the pouch. Drop it. Walk past the second stall. I'll throw smoke. You disappear. Clean."
I don't argue.
By the time the guards notice anything, I'm already scaling another wall—*and she's climbing beside me.*
We perch on a narrow ledge, panting. Dust in our lungs. Sweat on our brows.
I glance sideways. "Why'd you warn me?"
She shrugs. "Didn't want to watch you get gutted."
"You usually save strangers?"
"You looked too dumb to be dangerous."
I almost laugh.
She grins. "I'm Lira."
I nod. "You following me?"
"No," she says. "*I'm recruiting you.*"
That makes me pause.
She goes on.
"There's a group. Not a gang. Not thieves chasing gold. A *guild* called the **Threadless**. No oaths, no crowns, no blood taxes. Just power—quiet, precise. Earned by people like us."
"You work for them?"
"With them," she corrects.
I stay quiet. Thinking.
She leans back, looking at the stars. "You can keep fetching secrets for Tarn. Or… stand beside someone who actually *sees* you."
I look down at the streets.
Smoke from forges. Flickers from broken lanterns. The kind of city that eats people like us.
Then I look back at her.
"I'm in," I say.
She doesn't smile. Doesn't celebrate.
She just reaches into her coat and pulls out a wrapped bundle.
"What's that?"
"A tool," she says. "Not for hiding. For *becoming*."
I unwrap it.
A mask.
Smooth black leather. No eyes carved, no name tied to it. Just *possibility.*
"You'll know when to wear it," she says.
*That night, I tuck the mask under my pillow.*
*Not sure why. But it feels like it belongs there.*
*Like it's waiting.*
*Just like me.*