The bundles weren't scraps anymore.
By dawn, they sprawled across the streets like offerings to a god no one prayed to. Teeth. Fingers. Locks of hair bound in red thread. A jawbone left on the steps of a bakery. A tongue nailed to the temple door.
And on the Crown Office gates, written thick as tar:
FIFTH DEBT DUE — SACRIFICE.
The crowd outside shook with rage and fear. Torches waved. Stones clattered against iron. Voices rose in ugly rhythm:
"Vale owes!"
"Blood for blood!"
"Pay it!"
Teren stood just behind the gate. The torc pressed heavy against his throat, humming like it already knew the answer. His scar burned raw, pulsing a single word into his skull.
Give.
The Demand
Inside the chamber, the blackwood mirror fogged before anyone touched it.
PAY IN BLOOD.
The torc pulsed hard, iron ridges digging into his scar.
Give.
Neris slammed her satchel on the table, green eyes sharp. "Not his. Not anyone's."
The mirror ignored her.
NAME THE SACRIFICE.
Archivists muttered. Priests prayed. A noble hissed: "Better one blood than a city burned."
Brann shifted closer to Teren, fists clenched. His calm brown eyes turned hard. "Not happening."
Serin's voice slid smooth over the noise. Golden hair gleamed in the lamplight, vowflame still glowing faint at his throat. His smile tilted sharp. "One cut, one life, and the rest of us breathe free. Do it, Vale. Or the Crown takes who it wants."
The torc throbbed, eager.
Teren forced his breath slow. Four in. Four out. "It doesn't own me."
The mirror flared black, then scraped words deep into the glass.
REFUSAL NOTED. CROWN WILL CHOOSE.
The Victim
The bells tolled before sunset.
A scream tore through the square.
Captain Marrek—Brann's old commander, the man who had drilled him steady in storms—hung upside down from the Office gate. His blood dripped into a bowl neatly placed beneath him.
Across his chest, the Crown's sigil seared bright. Seven strokes, one missing.
Brann staggered forward, rage shattering his calm. His big hands shook as he tried to lift Marrek down. "No. Not him. Not him."
The crowd roared louder.
"It takes who it wants!"
"Vale cursed us!"
"Blood for blood!"
The torc purred cold against Teren's scar, pleased.
Give.
The Riot
The city turned savage that night.
Torches and stones battered the gates. Guards braced shields, but the mob surged harder. A rock cracked against Neris's shoulder. Brann roared, holding the line, fists hammering back bodies, but the numbers dragged even him down.
The torc burned hot, whispering louder.
Give. Give. Give.
Then golden fire split the dark.
Serin Haldrin raised his hand, vowflame bending into a shining wall. The crowd gasped, blinded by gold. Cheers broke out.
"Haldrin! Crownmirror!"
"He saves us!"
Serin's smile gleamed. He let the light fade slow, leaving the cheers ringing.
He leaned close to Teren as the mob scattered. "See? The city knows a real crown when it burns."
The torc pressed harder, iron ridges biting. Teren clenched his jaw and said nothing.
The Sacrifice
The Quiet Room wasn't quiet.
Grooves on the floor glowed faint red as Teren's blood dripped into them. The torc writhed, ridges sharp as teeth.
The mirror scrawled:
ONE PAID. SIX REMAIN.
Blood welled along his scar, hot and steady. The lines drank it, glowing brighter.
Neris pressed a cloth to his throat, fury tight in her voice. "Don't you dare feed it."
The torc hissed back.
Give.
He rasped his anchors past the pressure. "Rain on tin. Rope through a pulley. Apples in summer."
The torc eased a fraction, but the grooves burned brighter—until the light shattered.
Glow scattered across the floor like broken glass. In the scatter, a shape formed: a crown fragment, jagged and incomplete, hovering above the stone.
The mirror flared new words:
FRAGMENTS GATHER. CROWN REMEMBERS.
Gasps filled the room. Archivists scribbled madly, faces pale.
Serin's smile faltered. "It's reforging."
The Marshal's eyes stayed locked on the shard. "The debts aren't punishment. They're pieces. Each one reforges the Crown."
The torc pulsed sharp. Its ridges shifted higher, crown-teeth jagged against Teren's throat.
The fragment sank into the iron like it belonged there.
The collar tightened. His vision blurred. Voices rose in chorus, not whispers.
We remember. We return. Vessel. Vessel.
The Hook
At dawn, the gates bled again.
SIXTH DUE — MEMORY.
A fresh bundle waited at the base. A heart wrapped in red thread. Still warm.
The torc pulsed once, eager.
Archivist's Note (later filed):
The Fifth Debt never bargains. It doesn't take one life. It takes a piece of the world. And the Vessel carries it all.