Velvet Thread
The Velvet Threat leaves no whisper behind. They are the dagger in the ballroom, the missing heirloom, the breath caught in your throat before the poison takes hold. While nobles sip wine and feign civility, the Velvet Threat moves among them, masked in elegance, masked in blood.
Their ranks include master infiltrators, illusionists, and silent killers—though their true power lies in information. Assassination is a last resort. Blackmail is preferred. A noble’s reputation ruined, a ledger vanished, a daughter disappeared without a trace—their fingerprints are never found, but their presence is always felt.
No one commissions the Velvet Threat directly. They come to you, and only when it suits them. A favor owed, a debt recalled, a deal never forgotten. Some say the organization is led by a cabal of veiled figures known only as “The Tailors,” each one weaving fate from the silk of sin and secrets. Others believe the Velvet Threat is an illusion itself, a mask worn by many for their own ends.
What is certain is this: when the candles dim and the silence lingers, the Velvet Threat has already passed through.
The alley was silent until her boot hit the wall beside the mark’s head. "Oops," she said flatly, twisting the ring from trembling fingers. "Wrong turn?" Her smile never touched her eyes. A shadow moved behind her. "Don’t worry. I’m sure my sister can help you find your way." She leaned in close, whispering low. "Or I could just help myself. Easier for everyone."
The torchlight flickered as she reached for the latch. "It’s locked," came the whisper behind her. "I know," she muttered, already slipping a blade between the frame. A soft clink, then a grin. "Not anymore." Behind them, soft footsteps and softer laughter. "You’re enjoying this too much," the voice teased. "That’s because you’re watching," she said. "And that’s when I’m at my best."
They slip between breaths, and by the time you gasp—they're gone.
