Ash on the Edges

They didn't speak right away after leaving the estate. The city didn't let them.

Morrowind Avenue was quieter than the station, but only just. Horse hooves clacked against stone, carriage wheels hummed past, and a street musician played a slow, trembling tune on a nearby violin. Even the shadows felt busy.

Jamie walked a few paces ahead, his boots tapping a steady rhythm, his hands deep in his coat pockets. Iris followed behind, cradling the velvet pouch like it might evaporate if she loosened her grip. Her steps were slower now—not heavy—but tired.

She didn't realize how drained she was until they turned a corner, and the street noise dropped for half a block.

"Are we heading toward the inn now?" she asked, voice low.

Jamie didn't answer right away. He was still running hot from the conversation with Maribelle—eyes sharp, thoughts tangled.

"I was thinking," he said, "we could use the rest of the daylight. Ask around. Tailor shops, maybe. Someone must've woven that fabric if it's from the capital."

Iris blinked hard, her feet slowing again. "Jamie."

He turned halfway, eyebrows raised.

"I'm spent," she said softly. "I can't talk to anyone else today."

"You wouldn't have to do the talking," he offered. "I just need another pair of eyes. You're better at spotting—"

"Jamie," she repeated sharper this time. "I can't."

That made him stop. He turned to face her fully, and they stared at each other for a moment, the space between them filled with everything they weren't saying.

Iris looked down the street. "I've had strangers in my face all day. My mind is running a mile a minute. I watched a noblewoman examine my soul like it was sewn into the hem of that dress. I'm still unsure if I delivered art or a political message wrapped in velvet."

Jamie's expression softened. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. We'll find the inn."

He stepped closer, walking beside her now, his stride adjusting to hers. They didn't speak again for several blocks. The pouch in Iris's coat thudded softly against her side with each step, heavy in ways she couldn't explain.

The streets began to thin. Lamps lit overhead. Laundry lines crossed between second-story windows. A group of kids darted past them with chalk-stained hands and bare feet, laughing like the city hadn't stolen anything from them yet.

Jamie glanced at her again. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't be. I know you want answers. I do, too. Just… not today."

He gave a slow nod. "You were incredible in there, by the way."

Iris snorted. "I was barely holding it together."

"You didn't flinch once. Not even when she called you 'good girl.'"

"Ugh. Don't remind me. I'm gonna hear that in my nightmares."

He smiled. "Seriously. You looked like you belonged."

"I looked like I wanted to disappear. Same thing in fancy places."

They reached a quieter intersection, and Jamie checked the scrap of paper he'd tucked in his coat pocket—the name of an inn scribbled in uneven ink. "Three more blocks. Supposed to be tucked between a butcher shop and some flower carts."

"Sounds poetic," Iris said dryly. "Hope the walls don't smell like either."

Jamie chuckled. "Could be worse. We could be sleeping at the station."

Iris shuddered. "One more whiff of the steam engine, and I'll throw myself into a laundry cart."

He looked over. "You sure you're okay?"

She hesitated. Then said, "No. But I will be."

And that, for now, was enough.

The inn stood in a crooked line of buildings, its sign swinging from iron brackets that squeaked with every gust of wind. Painted in faded green with peeling gold script, it read: The Thistle & Thorn—Rooms, Warm Meals, No Nonsense. Which sounded like exactly what Iris needed.

The building was narrow but deep, tucked between a butcher shop that was thankfully closed for the evening and a flower cart spilling over with damp petals and crushed stems. The inn's front windows glowed with soft amber light. The smell of spiced broth and old wood drifted out as Jamie pushed open the door.

Inside, it was warm. The lobby was small, more of a wide hallway than anything, with an old rug worn down in the middle and framed sketches of local scenery crookedly hung on the walls. A small bell sat on the counter beside a guestbook with a cracked spine.

A woman with short gray hair and sharper eyes looked up from behind the desk. "Room?"

Jamie nodded. "Two beds, please. Nothing fancy."

"Everything here's the same kind of not-fancy." She reached under the counter and pulled out a key. "Three nights?"

Jamie glanced at Iris.

She was leaning against the doorframe, her eyes half-lidded, her boots muddy, and her arms still wrapped around the velvet pouch, like it was the last real thing holding her together.

"Let's start with that," Jamie said. "We'll extend if needed."

The woman named a price, and Jamie opened the pouch Iris had handed him earlier. A few coins glinted inside—enough to stay comfortably, more than enough for a hot meal or two.

He paid without a word.

They climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, the boards creaking beneath their steps. Their room was at the end of the hall, tucked beneath the sloped part of the roof. When Jamie opened it, the door stuck a little.

Inside was simple: two narrow beds with heavy quilts, a wooden table near the window, a ceramic washbasin, and a small oil lamp already lit. The scent of lemon polish clung faintly to the air, mixed with the warm, earthy smell of the linen.

Iris stepped in, dropped her bag by the nearest bed, and fell face-first onto it.

Jamie raised a brow. "Shoes, at least?"

A muffled groan came from the pillow. "Too far."

He crossed the room, crouched down, and tugged off her boots one at a time.

"You get settled," he said softly. "I'm going to check out the neighborhood."

She turned her head. "Jamie, don't. Don't get kidnapped; I'm too tired to save you."

Jamie laughed. "I'm not a child anymore."

He slipped out into the city again, letting the night swallow him.

Once he was outside, the city felt different. Quieter somehow, despite the murmur of life still flowing through the streets. Jamie ducked into a covered alleyway near a lantern post and pulled out his phone. The signal wasn't great, but good enough. He typed: "tailor shops near Morrowind Avenue – embroidery specialists."

Several results popped up. He squinted, scrolling. Most were general menders or dry goods stores, but a few stood out—one had a photo of golden thread coiled like silk snakes, and another boasted "royal commissions" in its tagline.

Jamie copied down three names in a notes app, then jotted them onto a piece of receipt paper in his coat. He cross-checked each name with the map app on his phone and memorized the walking distance. His breath fogged slightly in the cold night air.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he entered. Coats, primarily military, hung in neat rows. Brass buttons, pressed cuffs, and a faint smell of starch clung to the air.

A man folding a navy jacket looked up, eyes narrowed.

"Evening," Jamie said. "I'm looking for information, not a suit."

"We're closing soon," the tailor said flatly.

"Won't take long," Jamie replied, stepping closer. "I'm trying to trace an embroidery pattern—gold thread, tight weave, formal cut. Council-adjacent."

"We don't do private commissions anymore. Against regulations," the man said.

Jamie didn't push. He reached into his coat and pulled the sealed evidence bag just far enough to show the fabric scrap inside.

"Ever seen work like this?"

The tailor stared. Too long.

"No," he said finally. "Never seen it."

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "You hesitated."

"You're mistaken."

"Right. Of course." He tucked the fabric away, his tone light but pointed. "If you remember anything, I'm at the Thistle & Thorn."

As he turned to leave, the man spoke again—quieter this time.

"Careful who you ask about that sort of thread, sir. Some knots don't come undone easy."

Next was Elvira's Gold Needle, a polished storefront near the artisan district. The space smelled of rosewater and polish, and gold and silver thread glinted in the warm lamplight.

The woman behind the counter barely looked up.

"I'm hoping you can help me identify this," Jamie said, showing the scrap again.

Elira's expression didn't change, but her posture did.

"That's beautiful work," she said carefully. "A style that's gone out of fashion."

"But you've seen it before."

"Not in some time. Not since the Guild Collapse."

Jamie frowned. "Guild Collapse?"

"Five years ago. Political mess. One of the noble families went underground. Everyone who worked with them got nervous. Some shut down. Others changed names."

"Anyone still working in that style?"

"Those kinds of stitches were private," she said. "Trusted to only a few. They weren't just designs. They were signatures."

Jamie leaned in. "You remember who wore it?"

"Only who paid for it. Not the same thing."

"If I found a guild ledger—?"

She smiled faintly. "If you find one that didn't go up in smoke? You'll still need permission. Or a bribe."

The final stop was an apartment above a shuttered apothecary. It had old paint, yellowed lace curtains, and a creaking door that sounded like it had secrets.

He knocked three times.

The door cracked open. A gray-haired woman peered out.

"You're late."

Jamie blinked. "I didn't know I had an appointment."

"You're not the first. You're just the first who didn't knock like a debt collector."

Inside, the space was cramped but cozy—fabric bolts, faded sketches, and candlelight.

Jamie handed her the sealed bag. "This was found on a corpse. In the river."

She took it gently. Her eyes widened just a little.

"I stitched this," she said. "Five years ago. Before I stopped."

"Who was it made for?"

"Captain Lennox Rourke. First Division. Council guard. Paid double for privacy."

"You ever meet him?"

"Only his courier. But the way he spoke? That fabric wasn't a uniform. It was a warning in silk."

Jamie's voice lowered. "Why stop?"

"Because people started dying. Clients. Couriers. Even one of the other seamstresses. And the ones who didn't die… disappeared."

"But you stayed."

She gave him a long look. "I vanished quietly. Don't mistake that for staying."

She handed the scrap back.

"Burn it when you're done. Or you'll be the next thing floating."

Jamie stepped out into the night. The wind had shifted. Colder now. Quieter.

He pulled his coat tighter and glanced at the city skyline.

The threads were fraying. And someone, somewhere, was trying very hard to keep them from being stitched back together.

Jamie stepped out into the street, his breath curling in front of him like smoke. The cold had deepened while he was inside, sneaking under his coat collar and biting at his fingertips. But it wasn't just the weather that had changed.

The city felt different now. Heavier.

The kind of heavy that pressed into your ribs and whispered through the cracks in old cobblestones. The kind that turned ordinary shadows into things with teeth.

He strolled, his boots echoing against stone as he passed shuttered storefronts and empty benches. Lanterns flickered above doorways like watchful eyes. The fabric scrap felt heavier in his pocket now, as if it knew what had been said about it as if it remembered blood.

Jamie stopped at a corner, pulled out his phone, and scrolled through the list again. Only three names. Only three stops. But now the path forward felt tangled—twisted like thread knotted at the ends.

Captain Lennox Rourke.

The name buzzed in his skull like static. A council guard. Secret commissions. Disappearing clients. A stitched warning. His stomach turned.

He couldn't let it go.

Jamie turned and walked faster toward the busier edge of the avenue, where music bled into the streets, and the lanterns burned brighter. Past a bakery that smelled like burnt sugar, Jamie entered a square crowded with voices and late-night wanderers.

He paused near a food cart selling skewered meat and glanced around. A pair of off-duty officers stood nearby, coats unbuttoned, laughing with too much wine in their lungs. They wore the insignia of the Second Division—cousins of the First, but close enough.

Jamie stepped up, ordered something he wouldn't eat, and listened.

"You hear what happened to Rourke?" one of the soldiers muttered, swaying slightly. "Word is he went rogue. Disappeared. Cowards say he ran."

"Or he got too close," the other said, his voice lower. "He knew things. Council things. The kind you don't repeat unless you want your family digging your grave with a spoon."

Jamie's throat tightened.

"Did he actually serve on the river patrols?" the first asked.

"Once or twice. But that man was built for velvet corridors and whispered orders. Not mud."

Jamie dropped his food into the nearest bin and stepped away, hands shaking. His instincts screamed.

He needed more.

Maps and scraps and tailors only told part of the story.

He needed someone who had worn that thread. Or someone who'd seen it bleed.

That meant soldiers. Not the polished ones smiling in parades—but the ones who drank in smoke-filled corners and talked too loud when no one else would listen.

He needed a tavern.

Somewhere low enough to hide secrets and lose sufficient to spill them.

Jamie reached into his pocket again and pulled out a different scrap of paper he hadn't used yet. A list, hastily written on the back of a receipt, with local tavern names circled. He hadn't planned to use it tonight. Hadn't planned to go that far.

But plans were for people who felt safe.

He wasn't one of them anymore.

He picked the one with the least polished name: The Drowned Stag.

It was nestled near the riverfront, where the city grew, and the stones remembered things. It was the kind of place officers warned their cadets to avoid, which made it exactly the place Jamie needed.

The walk there was long. Streets shifted from clean and polished to crooked and cracked. Windows grew darker. The air was dampened with salt and decay. The river wasn't far—he could smell it.

He passed a vendor selling tin flasks, a man peddling bootlaces, and an old woman muttering to herself about ghosts in alleyways. Jamie didn't stop. His focus was sharp now, adrenaline smoothing his nerves into something hard and steady.

He found the tavern tucked into a street bend, half-sunk into the earth. The sign above the door was splintered wood, etched with the shape of a stag mid-stumble, one antler broken. A faded red smear painted its belly.

The windows were thick with grime. From inside came the low drone of conversation and the occasional clatter of a mug hitting wood. Laughter, too—but not the kind that made you feel at ease. The kind that made your skin crawl.

Jamie stood outside for a moment, fingers tightening around the door handle.

He thought of Iris, probably asleep now, her boots by the bed, the velvet pouch under her pillow like a talisman.

He thought of the tailor's warning.

Burn it when you're done.

Jamie pushed the door open.

The heat hit him first—wet and sour. The tavern was packed with smoke, the air thick with sweat spilled ale, and something metallic he didn't want to name. Tables crowded the floor, most of them filled with soldiers and dockworkers. A man snored in a chair by the fire. Another was muttering into his drink, eyes vacant.

Jamie kept his head low and moved to the bar. The bartender, a wide-shouldered man with knuckles like bricks, eyed him suspiciously.

"You here for a drink or trouble?"

"Depends on the price," Jamie said coolly, sliding a coin across the counter.

The bartender grunted. "Rum, then."

Jamie took the glass but didn't drink. He turned, scanning the room. There were no uniforms, but scars, boots, and calloused hands told him who had worn them once.

He approached a corner table where three men were sitting playing cards. Their coats were patched, but their posture screamed training. One had a broken nose, and another had tattoos peeking from his collar.

Jamie sat across from them without asking.

"Evening," he said.

The men stared.

"You lost?" the one with the broken nose asked.

"I'm looking for someone who might've worn this," Jamie said, showing the fabric scrap.

That got their attention.

The man with the tattoos reached out slowly, brushing a fingertip over the threads. "Where'd you get that?"

"River. On a body."

The third man leaned back. "Then you've got bigger problems than finding a tailor, friend."

Jamie didn't flinch. "Does the name Rourke mean anything to you?"

They went still.

The tattoo guy dropped his cards. "Walk away, city boy. Don't ask that name here."

"I'm not looking for a fight," Jamie said, voice low. "Just the truth."

"You won't like it."

"Try me."

They exchanged glances. The man with the broken nose stood.

"You want answers?" he said. "Come back tomorrow. Alone. And not in that coat."

"Why?"

"Because if the wrong eyes see that scrap," he said, voice dropping to a rasp, "you'll end up the next body in the river. And no one stitches names into corpses anymore."

Jamie stayed still for a beat, then nodded.

He stood, dropped another coin, and walked out.

The cold hit him like a slap, but it was welcome. The night had fallen entirely—stars hidden, moon swallowed, and the wind cutting sharper.

He crossed his arms, standing in the middle of the crooked street, breath ragged.

This wasn't just about fabric anymore.

Whoever stitched that cloth had been stitching secrets. Warnings. Maybe even targets.

And whoever killed Rourke wanted those threads buried.

Jamie looked back at the tavern door, now closed again, hiding its secrets behind a layer of smoke and whispers.

He had a choice—leave it alone. Let the council bury its mess. Go back to the inn and pretend none of this was his problem.

Or—

He looked down at the fabric again.

Or follow the thread until it snaps.

Jamie tucked it away, squared his shoulders, and started walking.

He had a date with danger tomorrow.

And he didn't plan on being the one who ended up floating.