Rain streaked the paper windows of Meridian Pavilion, turning the afternoon light to a soft, gray glow. Lin Wan sat hunched over her worktable, her silver needle moving in quick, precise stitches: the spiral of thorns from Mr. Hale's tattoo, wrapped tight around a lotus's petals, the moonlight silk glowing faintly against the dark fabric. The needle hummed, warm and steady—no longer a warning, but a promise, as if it recognized the defiance in her stitches.
Shen Yan stood by the window, his dagger resting on the sill, his gaze fixed on the rain-slicked streets. "The Thorn Weavers won't wait," he said, his voice cutting through the patter of rain. "They have the journal, but they need the screen fragments to activate the Lotus of Unity. They'll come for us."
Lin Wan didn't look up. "Or we'll find them first." She lifted the embroidery panel, the defensive pattern glinting. "This will shield the pavilion. Any Thorn Weaver who tries to enter will trigger the threads—they'll bind to their hidden marks, just like the thread-eater's control."
A sharp knock interrupted her, loud enough to be heard over the rain.
It was a girl, no older than sixteen, her coat soaked through, her hair plastered to her forehead. She clutched a wooden box to her chest, its surface carved with a faint lotus pattern—matching the one on the journal. "I heard you help with memories," she said, her voice trembling. "My brother—he's missing. The last thing he left was this box. It has your mother's name on it."
Lin Wan's needle stilled. She took the box, her fingers brushing the carved lotus; the wood was smooth, worn by years of touch, and inside the lid, scrawled in her mother's handwriting, was a single word: "Safe."
The box held a small, cracked tile—its edge curved, matching the screen fragment she carried. And wrapped around the tile was a note: "The second fragment is in the old weavers' vault, beneath the East Market. The Thorn Weavers don't know it's there. Trust no one but the girl—she's one of us."
Shen Yan stepped forward, his gray eyes narrowing. "What's your name?"
"Lila," the girl said—but her voice hitched, as if she was repeating a line she'd memorized.
Lin Wan's needle tingled. The girl's coat sleeve had slipped, revealing a faint spiral tattoo on her wrist: the Thorn Weavers' mark, faded as if it had been scrubbed.
She set the box down, her voice calm. "Why did your brother give you this?"
The girl's eyes glazed over. "He said… he said it would keep me safe. From the men with the thorns."
Shen Yan grabbed her wrist, his grip gentle but firm. "The Thorn Weavers marked you. Did they force you to come here?"
Tears spilled down the girl's cheeks. "They have my brother. They said if I didn't bring you to the vault, they'd take his memory forever."
Lin Wan's chest tightened. This was a trap—Mr. Hale had sent the girl to lure them to the vault, where the Thorn Weavers would be waiting. But the tile was real; it was a piece of the screen fragment, a clue her mother had hidden years ago.
"We'll go," she said, picking up the tile. "But not alone."
She wrapped the defensive embroidery panel around her arm, the threads warming against her skin, and Shen Yan tucked his dagger into his coat, the jade fragment glowing. The girl led them through the rain-soaked streets, her steps quickening as they neared the East Market—an abandoned district, its stalls boarded up, its alleys shadowed.
The vault was beneath an old weavers' shop, its door locked with a rusted padlock. Shen Yan froze the lock with a burst of frost, and it shattered. Inside, the air smelled of dust and forgotten silk, and the walls were lined with shelves of embroidery supplies—spools of moonlight silk, boxes of needles, panels stitched with long-lost patterns.
In the center of the room, on a stone pedestal, sat the second screen fragment: its curve fitting perfectly with the one Lin Wan carried, its surface carved with the interlocking lotus.
But as she reached for it, the door slammed shut.
Mr. Hale stepped out of the shadows, flanked by two men, their coats stitched with the spiral thorn pattern. "You're smarter than your mother," he said, his pale blue eyes cold. "But not smart enough."
The girl stumbled back, her eyes wide. "You said you'd let my brother go!"
Mr. Hale laughed. "Foolish child. We don't keep promises to tools."
Shen Yan stepped in front of Lin Wan, his coat erupting in frost. "Let her go. This is between us."
The two men lunged, black threads snaking from their coats. Lin Wan activated the defensive panel: the thorns and lotus threads erupted, wrapping around the threads, binding them tight. The men screamed, their tattoos glowing as the panel's magic seared the Thorn Weavers' mark.
Mr. Hale grabbed the second fragment, but Lin Wan's silver needle flew through the air, piercing his hand. He dropped the fragment, and Lin Wan caught it—its surface warm, merging with her fragment to form a full screen, the interlocking lotus glowing gold.
The screen erupted in light, projecting an image: her mother and Shen Yan's grandmother, standing in the same vault, hiding the fragments. "If the Thorn Weavers find this," her mother said, "the counter-patterns will be lost. But if our children find it… they'll finish what we started."
Mr. Hale roared, lunging for the screen, but Shen Yan's dagger sliced through his coat, the frost threads freezing his arm. "The police are on their way," Shen Yan said—he'd slipped a message to Elara before they left. "You're finished."
Mr. Hale fled through a hidden door, but the two men were trapped, their threads still bound by the defensive panel. The girl ran to Lin Wan, her hands shaking. "My brother—where is he?"
Lin Wan touched her arm, the silver needle warming. "He's in the alley behind the shop. The Thorn Weavers left him there, unconscious. He's safe."
The girl burst into tears, running toward the door.
Shen Yan picked up the full screen, its glow fading to a soft gold. "Your mother planned this. She knew we'd find the fragments."
Lin Wan traced the screen's lotus pattern. "She trusted us. Trusted that we'd choose to protect, not control."
Outside, the rain had stopped, and the sun broke through the clouds, gilding the wet streets. The Thorn Weavers had escaped with the journal, but they had the screen— the key to the Lotus of Unity, the key to stopping the Thorn Weavers for good.
As they walked back to the pavilion, the silver needle in Lin Wan's hand hummed, and the screen glowed faintly in Shen Yan's arms. The fight wasn't over, but for the first time, Lin Wan felt hope—not just for the memories they'd mend, but for the legacy they'd build: one stitch, one trust, one protected memory at a time.