My own name. Scrawled right beneath his. The parchment felt like a viper warming in my hands. The ink seemed to turn the room cold, shifting Natthawut’s presence from an abstract doom into an inconvenient shield. Someone in the Lotus wanted me gutted. And Maliwan, my fiercely attentive, endlessly loyal Maliwan, wore their mark. Bile climbed my throat, bitter as crushed gallnuts. I couldn't sleep. The information burned a hole in my mind. Waiting for dawn, for the city to stir, felt like an eternity. I needed answers, and I knew just the slippery eel who might have them. Old Man Khum. He dealt in whispers and forgotten trinkets, his information network as intricate as the roots of the Banyan trees that clung to the riverbanks. He’d be in his usual haunt, the submerged passages beneath the Silk Quarter, where the river currents sang secrets through cracked foundations. With Natthawut’s guards posted outside my shop – a constant, humming reminder of his inconvenient concern – I had to be careful. I slipped out the back, through the cramped storage room where bales of raw silk were stacked to the ceiling, the scent of fresh mulberry leaves a comforting blanket. A hidden panel, disguised as a loose plank in the floorboards, opened into a narrow shaft. I shimmied down, my embroidered tunic snagging on the rough wood, until my bare feet met the cool, damp earth of the service conduits. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of stagnant water and mud. The undercroft stretched as a labyrinth of dripping pipes and decaying wood, lit only by patches of phosphorescent moss on the damp stone. I moved like a shadow, my steps silent on the slick stone, the rhythmic slosh of water echoing my pulse. Khum’s usual alcove was deeper in, where the main channel forked, often filled with waist-deep water. I could hear the distant creak of boats above, the muffled chatter of the morning market, a world away from this damp, secret realm. As I rounded the final bend, a sickening scent hit me – not the usual river-rot, but something metallic, visceral. Copper coated my tongue. The glow-moss in Khum’s alcove seemed to pulse with an unnatural brilliance, illuminating a grotesque scene. Old Man Khum hung suspended from the moss-covered ceiling, his body twisted at an impossible angle. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared down at the dark water. Around his wrists, ankles, and neck, thin, translucent threads shimmered with a faint, iridescent blue light, humming with dormant monsoon magic. It was the signature of a Lotus enforcer, deliberate and precise. My stomach dropped. Khum was dead, and I was too late. I took a single, horrified step back, the water around my ankles rippling. That’s when I heard it – the soft *click* of a crossbow bolt being nocked, too close. I spun, a whisper of a warning escaping my lips, but the bolt was already flying. It was a blur, not aimed at me, but at the ancient, groaning pipe above my head. Water exploded downwards, blinding me, the force knocking me off balance. Before I could regain my footing, two dark figures erupted from the murky depths, their blades glinting in the faint light. I scrambled, pulling the ornate, razor-sharp hairpins from my braid, my mind racing. Two against one, in water, with bladed weapons. Not ideal. I feigned a stumble, ducking under the first assailant’s wild swipe, my hairpin flashing as I aimed for a pressure point in his wrist. He grunted, but his partner was already closing in from behind. Just as the second blade descended, a dark shape dropped from a fissure in the ceiling, landing with a splash that sent water spraying. Maliwan. She moved with a terrifying grace, a blur of motion in the confined space. Her hands, usually so gentle when tending to my silk samples, became lethal weapons. A swift block, a twisting strike to an elbow, a brutal kick that sent one thug sprawling into the water, his head hitting the stone with a sickening crack. The other assassin, momentarily stunned, barely had time to react before Maliwan’s palm connected with his throat, a sharp, precise blow. He gurgled, dropping his blade, his eyes bulging before he slumped, lifeless, into the water. The air vibrated with the sudden silence, broken only by the trickle of water and my own ragged breathing. Maliwan stood over the bodies, her chest heaving, her expression a mask of grim fury. The glowing threads around Khum pulsed, a garish signature of the syndicate she served. My best friend. A Crimson Lotus enforcer. The reality hit me harder than any of her blows. “Maliwan,” I choked out, my voice raw with betrayal. “What have you *done*?” She turned to me, her eyes, usually so warm and full of mirth, now cold and sharp. “What have *I* done, Chailai? I just saved your life! Again!” Her voice was a low growl, utterly devoid of her usual cheerful lilt. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to clean up your messes? How many shadows I’ve had to watch because you insist on dancing on the edge of a blade, all by yourself?” “These are *your* people, Maliwan! The ones who just tried to kill me! The ones who strung up Khum!” I gestured wildly at the dead informant, then at the two assassins floating nearby. The water around us was beginning to turn a faint, unsettling pink. “They *were* my people,” she spat, her gaze flicking between me and the bodies, “before they tried to touch you. I told you, Chailai, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep carrying the world alone. Let me help you. Let me share this burden.” She stepped closer, her hands outstretched, her features softening into something desperate, pleading. “Please. Tell me what you know. Tell me who you’re looking for. Let me shield you properly.” “Shield me?” I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that echoed through the wet stone. “By keeping secrets? By being a part of the very thing trying to kill me? What else are you hiding, Maliwan? What other lies have you told me?” My voice cracked. “You’re my best friend! You’re supposed to be *with* me, not *against* me!” “I’m not against you!” she cried, her voice cracking too, tears glistening in her eyes. “I’ve *always* been with you! I joined them to keep you breathing, Chailai! To watch your back! I know things, things that could keep you safe. I know who 'The Weaver' is, the true boss of the syndicate. I can tell you everything, just… just let me in. Let someone else shoulder this. You don’t have to be strong all the time.” Her words, full of raw anguish, hit me harder than any blade. Part of me, a small, terrified part, yearned to collapse into her arms, to let her take the reins. But the other, stubborn part, the noblewoman bearing her family’s doom, refused to endanger the one person who still held a piece of her heart. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “I can’t. I won’t drag you into this any further. I have to do this alone.” Maliwan opened her mouth, a fresh protest forming on her lips, but her words were swallowed by a sudden, deafening roar. The water around us began to churn violently, boiling and frothing. A blinding shaft of light pierced the gloom from above, cutting through the murky water, illuminating us both. The familiar silhouette of Natthawut’s war-barge, the *Storm's Serpent*, loomed directly over the fissure. Its hull creaked ominously. And then, he dropped. General Natthawut, clad in his dark, rain-slicked battle silks, landed with a powerful splash between Maliwan and me, sending an arc of frigid water surging over us. His sword, *Monsoon’s Breath*, was already drawn, its polished steel reflecting the barge’s harsh light. His gaze, colder than the river itself, was fixed on Maliwan. He moved with the precision of a predator, his blade arcing in a deadly sweep, aiming straight for her throat.

Threads in the Deep