Ainen picked the seed out of the bowl.
It was small and gray, no bigger than a pea, and it was cold. He held it in his open palm and looked at it. Then he looked at the hard brown crust of bread in his other hand.
He did not say anything for a while. Neither did Rudra.
Rudra took his hand off the gatekeeper's flesh at last. He looked down at his own fingers. The debt was still there inside him. Four hundred and twelve from the Shelf. Twenty-six hundred from Duskspire. All of it owed, all of it held.
He opened his hand, slowly, the way a man lets go of a rope.
"There's nobody left to collect from," he said.
"No," Ainen said quietly.
"I don't know if that's fair."
"It isn't," Ainen said. "I don't think it's meant to be."
Rudra was quiet. Then he crouched beside the cloth and put his hand on Ainen's shoulder, and left it there.
The heart beat.
