Rain had been steady for two days, soft and constant like a quiet warning.

Victoria looked washed, pale under the lamps.

From the theatre window I watched the water run along the gutters and collected on the roofs, and I thought about how the city hid things under peace the way people hid memories under smiles.

I heard the stairs before I heard the footfall.

Iris moved like a shadow who knew all the safe places.

She kept her face low, hood pulled, braid tucked.

When she reached the stage doorway she dropped the wet hood and smiled without warmth.

"You found anything?"

I asked without turning.

She set a small leather packet on the table and touched the map with fingers that still smelled faintly of coal and smoke.

"Glass Ravens have been tightening routes near Dock Nine.

Their shipments doubled last week.

We followed three wagons ...no weapons on manifests, but the manifests were falsified. Bribes moved, too. A noble's seal appears on one ledger."

I pulled the ledger free and let my eyes slide over the script.

The seal was crude, pressed with haste.

Not the careful stamp of a house used to hiding things.

The hand that signed looked older than the ledger, but the ink still read as if it were warm.

"Which house?" I asked.

Iris slid the paper back.

"Enough to start a rumor. Not a full name. A mark that connects to a small circle of councilmen who trade favors behind closed doors."

I breathed in the smell of wet canvas and old varnish.

"They move relics for prestige and for profit," I said.

"The Ravens are collectors. They don't sell what they take unless someone with more power asks."

I set the ledger down and let my hand rest on the chrome of my cane.

It was steady under my palm.

The theatre hummed around us, a low knowing noise.

"If the nobles want relics, who do they answer to?"

Iris folded her hands.

"Someone higher than the Raven's mask."

That was the worst possible answer. It meant the war would not stay local.

It meant threads reached into rooms with warm fires.

We were not here to fight everyone.

Chrome Hearts did not need a street war yet. We needed leverage.

We needed the city to change its mind about who wore the masks and who wore the crowns.

"Take two teams," I said.

"One goes to Dock Nine tonight. Observe. Do not engage unless necessary.

We take proof and we come back.

The other moves toward the council houses and listens. We gather names.

No rash steps. No blood unless there is no other path."

Iris's mouth flattened.

She had a way of standing small when she was thinking something heavy.

She nodded.

"Understood. If we get the ledger or a letter, we can leak it in the right place. A rumor is a slow blade. It cuts nobles first."

I was glad she was the only person who had stayed by my side despite everything that had happened before.

"Good."

I found the map of the docks beneath a stack of old playbills and circled the warehouse numbers.

The theatre smelled of old costumes and oil. The curtains looked like sleeping wings.

"Take Richter and the others. Move by the canal. I will not be there in the front, but I will not be far."

She hesitated. The trust between us had become its own fragile treaty.

"Noah" she said, "be careful.

The Ravens don't move like petty gangs."

I smiled without showing teeth.

"I know. That is why we do not charge like fools.

We dig..."

The docks were a place where the rain sounded different.

It moved through ropes and crates, through the hollows of gangways.

I shadowed the team from the theatre roof, watching Iris slip between lantern pools like a seamstress pulling thread.

She reported in quiet taps on a slate.

The first wagon smelled like salt and rotten rope.

Men who unloaded it moved with practiced hands.

The second wagon was an empty show, a cover to keep the guards busy.

The third ...there was the real ledger, tucked in a false compartment under bolts of coarse cloth.

I watched a man with a fisher's coat take the ledger from under the bolts, and I watched Iris's shadow move like a thought to take it back.

She liked to touch paper the way other people liked to touch another's face because once you knew the script, you could rewrite the performance.

She returned to the theatre before dawn with the ledger folded into her coat.

The men who worked with her were quiet and pale, their hands steady because they had seen the worst of what the city could hold.

"You didn't see the face?"

I asked as soon as the iron door closed.

"No face," she said.

"Only a shadow with a raven mask. He spoke to a man in a councilman's cuff.

The cuff had a faint mark of a house I don't want to name yet.

This ledger lists shipments, dates, and a phrase repeated in every entry.

'For the collector.'"

I felt the word settle like iron between my ribs. Collector.

Someone was gathering pieces of the world.

Someone with enough money and influence to make nobles sign away their secrets.

We studied the ledger by lamp light.

A careful hand had crossed names. Red wax stamped dates.

There were margins with notes in another language.blots and curls that reminded me of older marks I had seen in ruins.

The hand shook when it mentioned an auction.

The auction would be quiet and small, under the pretense of a private taste exchange

That would be the place where relics changed hands.

"If we can show proof that a councilman sells to the Ravens," I said, "we can force rival nobles to act.

We can make them cut ties. The last thing we need is the Council united."

Iris's eyes were tired.

"We leak to the right rivals, then sit back."

"Yes." I folded the ledger and slipped it into my coat.

"We make shadows bite themselves."

There was another thing I found under the ledger, tucked behind a slate. A thin strip of paper, half-burnt.

The ink was smeared, but someone had taken the trouble to write in small, careful strokes. It wasn't a name, but it had the curl of handwriting I had seen before—one of the strange marks that kept turning up when the world felt wrong.

For a second I saw in it a script that did not belong here, letters shaped like a memory from another life.

I closed my eyes.

The fragments came like the taste of iron in the mouth ...memories that were not mine and yet fit like clothes on a shelf.

A life in a different light, words spoken in a room that might not exist anymore.

The strip had burned edges, but the curls of ink were unmistakable.

"Where did you get that?"

Iris asked.

"Dock Nine," I said.

My voice felt thin.

"Someone tried to hide it in the ledger and failed."

"You're quiet," she said.

"Are you okay?"

I wanted to lie. Instead I nodded.

"A little."

I never liked to speak of the fragments out loud.

"We do this tonight," Iris said softly, and there was steel in it.

"The auction if it exists ...we find it ASAP.

We take proof, we take the buyer list, and we leave a trail the Council cannot ignore."

I folded the ledger and tacked a small sealed notice to the wall that only our people would recognize.

It was slow work but that was how revolutions started.

Not with roaring guns, but with a paper dropped in the right place and a whisper sent down a corridor.

I stood at the back of the theatre and looked up at the broken ceiling.

In the stillness I felt the pulse of the city, the slow beating of a thing that would not let itself die easily. T

he Raven's wings had brushed our smoke.

Now they had been marked.

"We are not the same as them," Iris said near my shoulder.

"We do not steal for the joy of it."

"No." I turned and met her eyes. "We steal to stop the ones who would sell the city for a trinket."

She nodded, and then moved away to ready the teams.

The rain kept falling, and beyond the theatre walls the city went on, unaware that a ledger could start a war.

We left the theatre with plans as precise and small as clockwork.

No blood, no grand speeches, just proof moving from hand to hand until it lodged where it would cause a fever.

The Glass Ravens would not wake and find us at their throats yet.

They would find the Council at their door.

Later, when the auction was exposed, when nobles argued in frantic halls and doors slammed on alliances, when the first true crack opened in the city's balance—then the war's first breath would come.

That was enough for now.

Under the theatre's roof, I pressed the thin burnt strip between my fingers until it was warm.

The ink looked like a name I almost recognized, and I swallowed against a dry, coming storm.

We had pulled one string. Other strings would follow.

The city would unravel in a way that looked like justice to some and like madness to others.

Either way, it would move us closer to the truth I chased.