Valeight announced itself not with fanfare, but with a confused sigh, as if the city had just remembered it was supposed to exist.

  The roads coiled like ribbons forgotten in a drawer, lit by nterns that flickered with memories rather than fire. Shops had doors but no walls, and the citizens moved with the half-hearted commitment of people who weren't sure whether they were dreams or symptoms.

  Ashwen tightened her cloak around her shoulders. "Why do I feel like this pce wants us to forget why we came?"

  Ilyan squinted at a sign that spelled a different name every time he blinked. "Because it probably does."

  Groat buzzed irritably from Ilyan's pocket. "This city viotes at least nine interpretive statutes and the entirety of bureaucratic self-reference. I'd sue it for libel if it had a fixed identity."

  A soft wind brushed against them, whispering in a dialect no longer spoken. It carried the scent of stitched ink and fraying memory. Valeight, the city that forgot itself, greeted them like an ex who still owed you a book.

  A shadow followed them — long, pointed, and topped with bells. It ducked behind chimneys and popped from alley cracks. Groat noticed, and groaned.

  "We're being stalked. By whimsy."

  Ashwen caught a flutter of velvet in the corner of her eye. A jester's hat. "It's him again. Monsieur Loup."

  "Oh good," Groat muttered. "My least favorite interpretive performance artist."

  They entered a corridor stitched from hanging fabrics. Every tapestry told a story, but the endings kept changing. Ashwen paused before one — it depicted a woman with her face unspooled like thread.

  "I know her," Ashwen murmured.

  "No, you don't," said a voice.

  She turned. No one was there. Just a spool of yarn rolling slowly away.

  A small shop blinked into existence at the street corner — NEEDLE JACK'S PATCH & PARADOX REPAIRS. Above the door hung a sign: We mend what never broke.

  Inside, relics buzzed on shelves like caffeinated insects. A floating armchair tried to escape from a dispy case. A hat whispered compliments.

  Jack was a thin man with eyes like pinheads and a voice like ironed paper. "Something's unstable in your tether," he said, gesturing at Ashwen's wrist. Her relic shimmered faintly — like a memory refusing to fade.

  "You've been in the Loomed Streets. Dangerous pce. Things tch on."

  As Jack calibrated a relic reader the size of a phonograph, a loud crash echoed outside.

  Calliope Wren burst through the door.

  "I have arrived!" she announced, sprawled on a chaise that hadn't existed a moment ago. She was draped in silks, mascara smudged with perfect precision, and wielded a cracked mirror like a badge.

  Groat groaned. "No."

  "You need me," she decred. "The city spoke to me. Said you were floundering."

  Ashwen raised a brow. "Did it also tell you to shatter three parasols on your way in?"

  Calliope sniffed. "The parasols were rude."

  "She's staying, isn't she?" Ilyan asked.

  Groat made a wheezing noise. "Unfortunately, the w of narrative gravity applies."

  As Jack finished stabilizing the relic, the door blew open. A soft-footed figure stepped in — Feylin Thatch, the twink with poetry eyes and a book of unwritten regrets.

  "Ah," he whispered, brushing snow that hadn't fallen off his shoulder. "This room is not ready for what you carry."

  Ashwen stared. "You know me?"

  Feylin smiled. "Only from verses that haven't been composed. Yet."

  Groat was about to object when a harsh caw sounded outside. The windows pulsed. The Thread Eater was near.

  Jack grunted. "You've drawn something. Something stitched wrong. You'll need to visit the Hall."

  "What hall?" Ashwen asked.

  "Where the Forgotten Stitchers sleep. Deep in Valeight's spine. Bring a bde of memory, and maybe… a poem."

  Feylin bowed. "That, I can provide."

  Monsieur Loup's ughter echoed from a rooftop. A single pying card nded on the windowsill. The Fool.

  And so the threads pulled tighter, weaving five stories into one cloak — frayed at the edges, but warm nonetheless.