The Violet Weaver is a notorious assassin and criminal, her identity is unknown to anyone. She gets her name for the intricate spider webs found on her victims bodies, and the purple poison she uses to kill her enemies. In the tangled alleys and candlelit balconies of the city, the Violet Weaver is spoken of in lowered voices, never by name and never twice in the same place. No one agrees on who she is. Some say she is a disgraced noble of a once-proud elven house; others insist she was raised in the rafters of the thieves’ guild, taught to walk beams before she could walk streets. What is certain is that she moves like a rumor—unseen, half-believed, and always too late to stop.Her signature is deliberate. Victims are found posed as though caught in invisible strands, thin lines carved with surgical precision across armor and skin, the faint scent of bitter violet clinging to the air. The poison she favors does not merely weaken; it stills. Guards are discovered frozen in place, faces locked in silent terror, as if the world itself held them in suspension while she stepped past. Despite her reputation, she does not kill for chaos alone. She selects contracts with a private logic, turning down coin that would destabilize the delicate balance of power in the city’s underworld. Crime lords who grow too bold, officials who prey too freely, rivals who mistake cruelty for strength—these are the threads she cuts. To some, she is a monster. To others, an unseen corrective force.Those who hunt her find only empty rooftops, silent corridors, and the unsettling feeling that they were spared. And somewhere in the dark, beyond torchlight and testimony, the Weaver watches, deciding who next will feel the tightening of her unseen web.