Chapter 3 – Paper Bones
The night passed without dreams.
When Vale opened his eyes, the pale light of morning seeped through the grime-caked window. Somewhere below, a bell rang in the distance—sharp and metallic. The sound echoed through the crooked bones of the Nine-Tooth Inn.
He didn't move right away.
Instead, he lay still, listening to the creaks of the boards, the clinking of cups downstairs, and the dragging of a broom across stone. It was like the city never slept—only changed masks.
Eventually, he rose.
His coat still smelled of smoke. He wiped a film of dust from the small cracked mirror in the corner of the room and stared at himself again: the same blood-red eyes, same sharp cheekbones, same pale skin.
This body didn't belong to him.
But it would serve him.
He left the inn just as the fog lifted from the street outside. People moved like a slow tide. The scent of boiled oats and wet iron filled the air. No one paid him much mind as he walked north along the uneven road, hands in his coat pockets, one eye always watching for patterns.
The city had a rhythm.
And like all rhythms, it could be disrupted.
---
He found what he was looking for by accident.
A squat brick building near the edge of a cracked stone plaza. No sign above the door, just a brass plate that read Crossbridge Communal Records.
It looked more like a customs office than a library, but Vale entered anyway.
Inside, the room smelled of mildew and charcoal ink. Shelves lined the walls—filled not with books, but stacked papers and bound folios. A man with round spectacles sat behind a desk, dipping a quill into a crooked inkwell.
He looked up when Vale entered.
"No loitering," the man said sharply. "State your need."
"I'm searching for maps," Vale replied. "Trade routes. Local geography. Anything recent."
The man frowned. "We don't carry mercantile records. This is a civic archive."
"Then local governance. Borders. I'm new to this part of the world."
"Evidently." The clerk stood, adjusted his glasses, and began shuffling through a drawer. "We have a census folio from Year 142, some annotated townships, and an uncorrected map of the western kingdom." He held up a thin bundle. "Two pence per hour."
Vale paid in copper.
The man led him to a wooden bench near the back.
There was no inkling of magic here. No secret symbols or shifting texts. Just yellowed parchment, torn pages, and creases where damp had folded time over itself. But it was still information. And information was power.
He began to read.
---
KINGDOM NAME: Darrent.
CAPITAL: Asevia.
PROVINCE: Crossbridge District.
NEARBY SETTLEMENTS: Elmrood, Windenhall, Hollow Fen.
So he was in Crossbridge—one of seven administrative districts of the kingdom of Darrent. The kingdom itself was coastal, bordered by mountain ridges to the east, marshes to the south, and a trade sea to the north.
No mention of the gods. No clear ruling class. Just mention of the Civic Council, the Watch, and a reference to "Ministerial Courts."
It felt more bureaucratic than feudal.
He noted every proper name.
A scribbled side-note on a trade route referenced something called the Calven Writ—a taxation law, maybe. Elsewhere, a mention of the Mirekeeper's Charter—perhaps to do with swamps or mining rights.
Vale read for nearly an hour.
He was about to rise when someone else entered the room.
A boy—no older than seventeen—with dirty blonde hair and soot-smeared hands. He wore a rough brown jacket and carried a satchel made from stitched canvas. He nodded politely at the clerk, who grunted in return, then took a place across from Vale and opened a book the size of his chest.
Vale didn't speak at first.
But he watched.
The boy flipped pages carefully, lips moving faintly as he read. His boots were scuffed. His fingers twitched when he paused too long on a page.
Curious.
"Not many your age spend time with books," Vale said.
The boy blinked. "Not many your age speak to strangers in archives."
Vale smiled faintly. "True."
The boy hesitated, then added, "It's my brother. He works in the Ministry Ledger Office. Wants me to learn letters proper."
"You're not from the city."
"No. From Windenhall. That's a day's walk east. Muddy place."
Vale tilted his head. "And your brother brought you here to read?"
"Better than cleaning out lye pits, sir."
"Smart brother."
They sat in silence again. Then:
"I'm Vale," he said quietly.
The boy glanced up. "Tallis."
"Tallis of Windenhall," Vale murmured. "And what does a boy like you hope to become in a place like this?"
Tallis smiled, half-shy. "Something better."
---
Later, when Vale left the records office, he passed by a man selling pickled fish out of a barrel.
He didn't stop for the food. He stopped because of the scar on the man's neck—jagged, puckered, curved like a crescent moon. Not surgical. Not clean. As if burned into him.
The man caught him looking and grinned. "Curious mark, isn't it?"
"Accident?"
"Worse. Faith."
Vale didn't respond.
The man laughed. "Don't worry. I ain't part of them no more. Took the brand when I was young. Thought it meant something."
"What was it for?" Vale asked.
The man leaned closer. "One of the old flocks. Don't say their names. Makes 'em twitch."
"Which ones?"
The man just tapped the side of his nose. "You want to keep your tongue? Don't dig where bones are buried."
Vale nodded once and moved on.
---
That night, Vale returned to the Nine-Tooth and sat by the window, candlelight flickering across the pages of his stolen notes.
Names. Borders. Symbols. Marks. Rumors.
He was building a skeleton of this world. Piece by piece.
His fingers strayed to the inside of his wrist again. The faint black line hadn't changed. But tonight, when he focused on it, something happened.
A whisper.
Not in his ears.
In his bones.
It lasted only a second. A pressure behind his eyes. A breath he didn't take.
And then, silence.
He let go of the feeling.
Not yet.
Not until he understood more.
Not until they lowered their guard.
Let them think he was just another pale stranger with no coin and no name.
Let them believe he bled like the rest of them.