The Marseille Code

The coordinates led Evelyn to a crumbling textile mill on Marseille's outskirts, its windows boarded, its walls scrawled with graffiti: "Les Sœurs de la Baie." The Sisters of the Cove.

Inside, looms clattered like bones. Women hunched over bolts of fabric, their fingers raw, stitching patterns Evelyn recognized—the same wolves and waves from Blackthorn. A foreman barked orders in French, his wrist tattooed with a needle-and-moon.

Evelyn's pulse quickened. She'd dyed her hair black, smudged her face with ash, but her hands betrayed her—smooth where theirs were calloused. A girl with hollow eyes tugged her sleeve. "Fuis," she whispered. Run.

Too late. The foreman's gaze locked on Evelyn. "Nouveau?"

She nodded, clutching a stolen quilt scrap like a talisman. He smirked, pointing to a loom strung with crimson thread. "Commencez."

The foreman's tattoo matched Ronan's cufflink.