The hour started the second the auctioneer's hammer cracked the podium.
And I had no idea where to even begin.
The crowd swelled around me, voices overlapping like waves in a storm. They weren't even pretending to whisper anymore.
"Guy's dead meat."
"He's going to get himself blacklisted, mark my words."
"I hope he tries. I need something to laugh at today."
Someone jostled my shoulder deliberately as they passed. "Nice move, hero," they sneered, breath hot with the stink of cheap ale. "Think you're going to rewrite the Ledger? Can't wait to watch you get gutted when the hour's up."
I stumbled back, biting down on a retort. It wouldn't matter. The Wharf didn't need reasons to hate someone—it just needed an easy target. And I'd just volunteered.
The boy and his mother were gone. Slipped out a side door as soon as the hammer fell. They hadn't even looked at me as they left.
I probably deserved that.
"Follow me," a voice said behind me, smooth and cutting through the noise like a blade.
I turned. The fox-eyed woman was already walking toward a side exit, her long coat brushing the filthy floorboards.
"Wait—who are you?" I called after her, pushing through the press of bodies.
She didn't slow. "Someone who might help you keep that boy's name," she said.
That was enough. I shoved through the last knot of people and followed her out into the Wharf's choking air.
Namelock Wharf wasn't much kinder outdoors.
The place was a tangle of narrow, splintering boardwalks and damp stone alleys, every surface slick with tidewater and rot. Rope bridges connected platforms stacked on platforms, sagging with the weight of too many people. Lanterns swung from hooks, casting warped shadows over the narrow canals that cut through the lower levels. Somewhere below, the Tide sloshed and hissed, swallowing trash and secrets whole.
This was the city where debts came to drown.
People stared openly as we passed. I could hear them muttering.
"That's him. The clause-runner idiot from the auction."
"Why's Hecate with him?"
Hecate. So that was her name.
She walked like the stares didn't exist. Like the Wharf itself parted for her.
A ragged-looking man leaning against a stack of crates spat in our direction as we passed. "Clause K-Nine, huh?" he said, his voice wet and mocking. "That's a new one. You planning to pull a miracle out your ass, boy?"
"Leave him," Hecate said without slowing, her voice light as a flick of a whip.
The man's smirk vanished instantly. He looked down, muttered something, and didn't say another word.
I jogged a few steps to catch up to her. "Okay, first question: how does everyone know your name? And why are they listening to you?"
"Because I'm an Auditor," she said simply.
"That's… not an answer."
"It's the only answer you need," she said.
We turned down a narrow alley, the kind that made you feel like the walls were going to close in. She ducked into a door marked with a rusted sigil and waved me in.
The room was small, cluttered, and smelled faintly of ink, wax, and the faint sweetness of burning lamp oil. Books and ledgers were stacked in precarious towers on every flat surface, some so tall they leaned like drunken sailors.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing at a chair that looked like it might collapse under me.
I sat anyway.
"Now," she said, crossing the room with a predator's grace, "we are going to have a conversation about your situation. Because right now? You're not going to make it through the next fifty-five minutes."
"I know that," I said, throwing up my hands. "I'm not stupid. But I couldn't just stand there—"
"Yes, you could have," she said sharply, cutting me off. "But you didn't. Which means you've volunteered yourself for a problem you don't understand."
I glared at her. "Then explain it."
She stared at me for a long, quiet moment, then pulled a clean sheet of parchment from a drawer and set it in front of me.
"Oath Equation," she said.
"What?"
"You're going to sign an Oath Equation with me," she said, retrieving a slender black pen and a small silver seal. "It will make you my apprentice. Which means you will have my authority. Which means, for the next hour, you might actually survive this."
I blinked. "Wait, apprentice? That's… that's a real thing?"
"Yes," she said, sliding the pen toward me. "And it's your only chance of ratifying Clause K-Nine before the deadline. Or would you prefer to try and convince the Wharf to believe in you alone?"
I looked down at the parchment. It was blank. My hands felt suddenly clammy.
"What happens if I sign this?" I asked.
"You become an Auditor's apprentice," she said. "You work under me. You obey my instructions. You learn, you earn, and if you fail, you will probably die. There is no glory in this. Only work. And cost."
"And if I don't sign?"
"Then you walk out of here, and you watch that boy's name get erased forever."
I swallowed.
The clock was ticking.
I picked up the pen.
The nib scratched across the parchment as I scrawled my name. Hecate's penmanship was different—precise and deliberate, every stroke curling into symbols that weren't just letters. When she lifted her pen, the parchment glowed faintly, as though branded by unseen fire, then cooled back to normal.
My palm tingled.
"What… was that?" I asked.
"Oath Equation," she said. "It's binding. You are officially my apprentice. And now, I can actually help you."
"That's comforting," I muttered.
"You'll be thanking me when you're not dead," she said.
I leaned back in the rickety chair. "Okay, so now what? We've got—what, fifty minutes left? How do we even make Clause K-Nine real?"
Hecate's lips curved faintly. "We fake it," she said. "And we make enough people believe it's real that the Wharf solidifies it into the Ledger."
I blinked. "So… exactly what I said at the auction."
"Yes," she said. "But correctly this time."
The Wharf was busier than before, though I couldn't tell if it was because the Tide was coming in or because everyone had heard about Clause K-Nine.
Hecate led me through narrow boardwalks and past swaying rope bridges. I could feel eyes on me.
"That's him," someone hissed.
"You're wasting your time, Hecate. He's finished."
We stopped at a corner where a group of street hawkers clustered around crates of dried fish and stolen odds and ends. These were the rumor-mongers. The ones who traded whispers as readily as coin.
"Start here," Hecate said.
"What? Why me?"
"Because it's your clause," she said. "They have to believe you."
I took a deep breath and approached the group.
"Hi," I said awkwardly. "I, uh… you may have heard about Clause K-Nine."
One of the hawkers, a wiry woman with half her teeth missing, snorted. "Oh, we heard. You're the fool who made it up."
"It's not made up," I said quickly. "It's… it's real. It's just… being finalized."
A big man with a shaved head leaned forward, arms crossed over his chest. "You got proof, clause-runner?"
My mouth went dry.
Then Hecate stepped forward, and the group instantly shut up.
"This boy," she said smoothly, "is under my authority. Which means Clause K-Nine exists. And if any of you would like to risk saying otherwise, by all means, step forward."
No one did.
"Good," Hecate said. "Now spread it. Clause K-Nine is valid. Witnesses will be rewarded."
The hawkers didn't need telling twice. They scattered into the crowd, already shouting it like news of the Tide.
"That bought us time," Hecate said as we slipped back into the maze of streets. "But not enough. We need more witnesses."
I ran a hand through my hair. "How many more?"
"As many as we can find," she said.
We stopped at a bridge where children darted back and forth, chasing each other across the planks. Hecate called them over, pressed a single Verity coin into the leader's grubby palm.
"Run," she said. "Tell everyone Clause K-Nine is real. The Ledger has already accepted it."
The boy's eyes lit up, and he bolted, the others following like a pack of small, noisy messengers.
Hecate turned to me. "You see how this works?"
"Yeah," I said, though my heart was still hammering. "Lie loud enough and it becomes the truth."
She smiled faintly. "Welcome to Namelock Wharf, apprentice."
The Threat
We didn't make it far before someone stepped into our path.
A man in a dark, threadbare coat. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His face was scarred and his eyes were cold.
"Veylan," Hecate said, her voice sharpening.
"Always a pleasure, Hecate," the man said, though the way he looked at her made it sound like the opposite. "Word is you're trying to ratify a fake clause."
"Word travels fast," she said.
Veylan's gaze shifted to me. "You don't look like much, clause-runner. You think you can outplay the Syndic?"
I swallowed. "I don't… I just—"
"Careful," Hecate said softly.
Veylan stepped closer. "If you're smart, you'll walk away right now. Let the boy's name go. Save yourself the embarrassment. And the consequences."
I clenched my fists. "I'm not walking away."
Veylan smiled without humor. "Then I'll enjoy watching you fail."
He melted back into the crowd before I could respond.
We moved quickly after that, whispering to shopkeepers, tavern owners, anyone who would listen. But the clock was ticking.
And as the auction hall came back into view, my stomach twisted into knots.
There were still too few witnesses. Too few believers.
If we failed, the boy would lose his name.
And I'd probably lose more than that.