The circles didn't need paint anymore.
By dawn, black scorches crawled across stone walls, market stalls, even the cobbles of Merchant Row. Seven strokes, one missing. Smoke still curled from the marks as if they'd been branded by invisible hands.
On the gates of the Crown Office, the words burned darker than tar: FOURTH DEBT DUE — CHOOSE.
Crowds pressed into the square. Traders leaned from carts, servants froze with buckets mid-swing, children clutched their mothers' skirts. They whispered louder than the bells: Another debt. Another Vessel. Who pays next?
Teren stood just inside the gate. The torc hummed steady at his throat, low and certain, like it already knew the answer. His scar pulsed with it, a slow ache that tightened his jaw.
Belong. Choose.
The Marshal shoved the gates shut, her short-cropped steel-gray hair bristling. Her voice was flat as hammered iron. "Inside. Now."
The Demand
The chamber was already full. Nobles in crested cloaks. Priests thick with incense. Slate-coated Archivists bent over ledgers. The blackwood box sat open on the central table, its mirror cloudy as if fogged from the inside.
The moment Teren stepped near, words carved across the glass.
LOYALTY.
The torc pressed against his scar, a phantom hand tightening on his throat. Cold bled into his veins.
Neris dropped her satchel on the table, pale green eyes flashing. "He's not giving it."
The mirror scrawled again, slower this time.
NAME YOUR CROWN.
Serin Haldrin leaned in the corner, arms folded, golden hair catching lamplight. His throat still bore the faint glow of his vow—a thin coin of gold fire, proud as ever. His smile tilted sharp. "All he has to do is admit it. Say he belongs. The debts close."
Brann shifted beside Teren, wide frame blocking half the room's view. His jaw clenched, steady as a wall. "Shut it, Haldrin."
Serin's smile widened. "Tell me I'm wrong."
The Marshal slammed her palm on the table. "Enough. This room isn't your duel ground."
The mirror scraped louder, glass squealing as new words gouged deep.
BELONG OR ALL PAY.
Gasps rippled through the chamber. One noble cursed. A priest raised his hands. "The Crown speaks plain. Refuse again and it will claim the city. We will all burn for his pride."
Teren forced his breath slow—four in, four out. The torc pulsed harder, angry at the rhythm. His voice came hoarse but clear. "It doesn't own me."
The mirror flared, then etched strokes so jagged the Archivists flinched.
REFUSAL NOTED. ESCALATION BEGINS.
The Consequence
The bells rang before sunset.
A boy no older than twelve staggered into the square, clutching a candle stub. His lips moved around words he couldn't finish. The flame sputtered black smoke and died. He collapsed on the cobbles, burns racing his arms though he had never sworn.
The crowd wailed.
The priest called it punishment. Nobles demanded protection.
Brann lifted the boy without asking, his big hands gentler than they looked. He carried him inside, boots pounding the steps.
Neris knelt fast, braid falling over her shoulder as she pressed her palm to the boy's chest. Painweaver light spread, sealing blisters into red lines. "This isn't his debt," she said, voice low and sharp. Her eyes flicked to Teren. "It's yours."
The torc pulsed cold, pleased.
Belong. Choose.
Teren spat iron taste onto the floor. "No."
The word stung the air. The mirror fogged black, then cleared with new script.
LOYALTY REFUSED. CONSEQUENCE WIDENS.
The Escalation
By morning, three more victims.
A laundress found burned by vowfire though she had never sworn. A stablehand's candle guttered black when he tried to light a lantern. A soldier collapsed in the barracks, blood seared into patterns that matched the missing stroke of the Crown.
The city turned ugly. Crowds threw stones at the Office gates. Chants rose: Vale owes, Vale pays.
Teren pushed through the noise, Brann a wall at his side, Neris close behind, her satchel banging against her hip. The Marshal strode ahead, ignoring curses that spat after her.
Inside, the blackwood box waited. The mirror fogged again without touch.
LOYALTY TESTED. NEXT NAME CALLED.
The glass shifted to show a golden flame: Serin Haldrin, tall and proud, his vow blazing steady.
Serin barked a laugh. "It thinks I'll kneel to his Crown?"
The mirror answered without pause.
PAY TOGETHER. BURN TOGETHER.
The torc writhed against Teren's throat, iron edges sharpening. Ridges rose jagged, half-crown teeth visible above his collar. Cold seared the scar until he hissed.
Gasps filled the room.
"Anchor him!" the Marshal snapped.
Neris pressed a wet cloth to the iron, careful not to touch skin. "Stay with me, Teren. Three anchors—now."
He bit the words out. "Rain on tin. Rope through a pulley. Apples in summer."
The torc eased a fraction, but the crown-teeth gleamed, jagged and permanent.
Serin's smile dimmed. "Every refusal builds it. Stop pretending you're free."
Brann growled. "Keep talking, Haldrin, and I'll bruise that golden throat."
"Enough," the Marshal cut them both off. Her eyes stayed on Teren. "If the Fourth Debt can't take his loyalty, it'll punish the rest. We brace for it."
The mirror scrawled final words:
FOURTH DEBT MARKED. LOYALTY REFUSED. CONSEQUENCE OPEN.