The Gut's veins pulsed, thorns clawing stone, their shadows stitching wounds that bled grey.
Teon Grivalt led the squad into a hidden safehouse a rotting cellar beneath a burned-out tavern, its walls slick with ash veins, thorned, like the shrine's spirals, like the noose that named him. His Rot Mark seared under his leathers, a claw that wouldn't sleep.
The scroll in his belt throbbed its parchment peeling like a wound, veins of black ink pulsing, Mayla's voice purring: Teon, open me. Her lullaby gnawed his mind: The rot that remembers… Crows scratched at the trapdoor above, one with a third eye glinting like the sigil on Kcel's cloak—chanting:
Know their names.
Sura Lenhart collapsed against a crate, her satchel heavy, the music box's thorns piercing her palm. Her spiral scar—visible only to Teon—pulsed, blood stitching the frost, a noose tightening with each heartbeat.
Her eyes were hollow, her breaths ragged, Mayla's voice whispering through the scroll: Sura, open me. Brik Roan slumped near the hearth, his iron bat limp, the Iron Dog brand on his glove pulsing in sync with the ash veins, forge-born, silent. Lune Roan stood guard at the trapdoor, her silver eye dim, her blind one itching, the crow's voice louder in its darkness.
The cellar's air was thick, ash swirling into thorned patterns, like the chapel's blade scratches, like Vraek's locket. Teon's mark burned, the scroll's purr a white-hot brand in his skull. Guilt clawed him—Mira's scream echoed in the ash, her face flickering as the spirals closed around her—his choice to split them had painted the Gut in corpses: lookouts, kids, smugglers.
Wrong or not, I decided.
His fingers grazed the scroll, its veins throbbing, Mayla's voice soft, seductive: Teon, open me. A fragment slipped out—"Mi…"—his whisper barely audible, soul fraying. His knife trembled against the seal, the name Mira a blade he barely dodged.
Brik's eyes snapped to Teon, his brand burning.
"You're hearing it too,"
he whispered, not growling, his silence heavier than rage. His pit scars burned—screams, iron, a forge that broke him.
"In the pits, the fire named me. It said Brik, break."
His bat clattered to the floor, his hands trembling, the forge-born shadow swallowing his gaze.
"You're breaking us, Teon."
Lune's silver eye wavered, her pit brands twisting—chains meant to be spirals, burning like fresh wounds.
"In the Burnpit, I heard my name in fire,"
she said, voice cracking, her blind eye seeing too much.
"I thought I imagined it. But the scroll knew me first."
Her knife gleamed, trembling, the Burnpit's screams echoing: chains, fire, a vow broken.
"What's it saying now, Teon? Is it naming me again?"
Sura's scar flared, the music box screaming:
Crows forget their wings.
Its thorns unspooled, piercing her palm—the blood hung in the air, forming a jagged spiral, mirroring the ash veins.
"It's naming me,"
she whispered, clutching it, her eyes locked on Teon's.
"Mayla's voice—it said Sura, open me."
Her blood stitched the frost, a noose tightening. For a second, the purr fell silent. She touched Teon's arm, her breath steadying.
"We're safe here,"
she said, a heartbeat of hope. The squad exhaled, the ash steaming like breath held too long.
A crow cawed above, its third eye glinting, and the hope shattered. T
he scroll purred again: Teon. Sura. Lune. Brik. Marked. Mine.
Sura's scar bled faster, her blood shimmering, as if the crow had licked it clean.
"It's waking,"
she said, voice trembling, a tear like blood on frost.
Doma's eyes pulsed, embers fading.
"They told me we'd be spared…"
he whispered, his Clergy scars burning—texts burned, lives lost, faith ash.
"The frost knows what the crow names,"
he said, his cane sinking deeper, ash swirling into a thorned pattern.
"The crow's not a bird. It's a memory—a wound that never closes."
Teon's mark roared, a vision flashing—snow, Mayla's lullaby, Why does it hurt? The scroll's veins pulsed, Mayla's voice splitting his skull: Teon. Sura. Lune. Brik. Marked. Mine. His knife pressed against the seal, trembling, a defiance that could burn them.
"I won't let it name us,"
he said, voice raw, a boy's fear in a man's throat.
The cellar's ash veins glowed—not guiding them, but writing their names in thorned light.
Kcel's lanterns flickered outside, his silhouette warping—too many joints, too many fingers that weren't missing anymore. His voice cut through, a metallic tang, like blood on a whetstone:
"I lost more than fingers to the Hollowreach. You'll lose your face."
A patrolman flinched, his hand—two fingers gone—trembling, muttering,
"Yes, Inquisitor Kcel."
The trapdoor rattled, the crows chanting: Know their names. Sura's music box screamed, thorns hooking the air. Brik's pit scars burned, his bat still on the floor.
Lune's blind eye itched, her secret a blade.
Teon didn't run from Kcel. He ran from the name that cuts.