He held me there, not with his hands, not with chains. Just the mark.
The crown tattoo shimmered on Alistair Grey's chest like living gold, and with one whispered word, my body had obeyed. Not willingly, not even consciously. It was like my bones had snapped to attention.
I knelt.
My face nearly touched the marble floor. And I couldn't move.
"See," Alistair said, smiling as he adjusted his shirt, "this is the problem with power. Once you get a taste, you forget how to play nice."
Etta was frozen behind me, lips twitching, eyes wide with fury. I could see her trying to speak, to move, but her mouth wouldn't open.
"What did you do to her?" I growled.
Alistair crouched beside me. "Don't worry. She'll move again. When I let her."
His voice was calm, crisp. But there was an edge to it, like a needle hidden in silk.
"I could kill you right now," I spat. "You know that."
"You could try," he said. "But let's be honest, you're not here for that. You're not ready."
"I came for your skin," I said.
He chuckled. "Oh, you poor stitched fool."
Alistair stood again, brushing invisible dust off his gloves. "You want my tattoo? Go ahead. Try to peel it. But I should warn you, this one's alive. Royal marks can't be stolen. They choose."
I forced myself to breathe, to think. He was right. I couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't even blink without permission. But then the Eye on my wrist pulsed.
And I saw...
Five seconds ahead.
Alistair stepping back. Me breaking the hold. Etta tossing a card. Smoke. Screaming. Fire.
Back to now.
Time to act.
I grit my teeth, whispered under my breath, "Marcelline... if you're in there... give me five seconds."
The Eye flared, Alistair blinked, the hold broke. I surged to my feet.
"Etta!" I shouted.
She moved again, jerked like her strings had been cut, and flicked her wrist. A flaming card exploded in the air between us and Alistair. Smoke swallowed the chamber. I grabbed her arm and ran. Voices shouted behind us. Commands. Orders.
But the Eye pulsed again, and I dodged every grasp before it happened. Alistair's voice rang out through the smoke:
"Run, Carter. But remember, only one of us can wear the throne."
We didn't stop until we hit the Thames, literally. We burst through a basement door and tumbled out onto the river's edge, panting, coughing, soaked in sweat.
Etta collapsed beside me. "We're dead. We're so, so dead."
"He let us go," I said.
"Yeah, after parading his control over every Weaver in London."
I looked at my hands. They shook. Not from fear, but from pressure. Too much pressure. Like my skin was too tight. Like someone inside was pushing outward.
"She's getting louder," I muttered.
"Who?"
"You know who."
Mama Marcelline.
Her voice was still faint. Still a whisper. But it was getting… clearer.
Etta sat up. "We need to talk about Alistair."
"What about him?"
"He's not lying."
I blinked. "You believe him?"
"I believe he wants the Queen dead. But that doesn't mean we can trust him."
"Why would he want her dead?"
She hesitated. Then said, "Because if the Royal Curse spreads, he loses control."
I frowned. "Explain."
Etta rubbed her face. "The Royal Mark - Alistair's crown - that thing doesn't belong to him. Not really. It was passed down through the bloodline. Worn by kings and queens and monsters alike. It was sealed during the Great Burning, when the British Weavers tried to erase their own sins. But somehow, Alistair found it. Or stole it."
"And now he uses it to...what? Control everyone?"
She nodded. "Anyone who sees it falls under his command. But there's a catch."
"What kind of catch?"
Etta looked me dead in the eyes.
"The Royal Curse doesn't just command. It binds. And the more people Alistair controls, the more of himself he loses."
"…What?"
"Every time he uses that mark, a part of him gets stitched into someone else. A piece of his soul, unraveling, thread by thread. And sooner or later... he's gonna run out of thread."
I sat there, trying to process.
"So what happens when the threads run out?"
She didn't answer. The river bubbled. Just for a second. And then something crawled out of it. At first, I thought it was a man. But it wasn't. It had no skin. Just bones. Wrapped in red string. Its face was stitched shut, and a tattoo of an open mouth screamed silently across its forehead.
Etta jumped to her feet. "That's a Threadborn."
"A what?!"
"Alistair's leftovers. When he runs out of soul… this is what's left behind."
The Threadborn took one step toward us, and the ground cracked.
"I don't suppose you have another card," I muttered.
Etta cursed. "They don't work on these."
"Then what does?"
"Only one thing," she said, backing up.
"What?!"
She shoved the bleeding tooth into my hand.
"You have to feed it."
"What does that mean?!"
"Let the Queen speak."
I stared at the tooth, it pulsed, hot, hungry. The Threadborn reached for me. And I heard the voice again...
"Say my name, little thief. Say it, and I'll burn the world for you."
.............