The city bled. Not with blades, but with names.
In the north ward, three brothers circled a dying father. The eldest swore the man wasn't kin. The second said he'd never had brothers. The third carved his own name into the floorboards, screaming it until his throat cracked.
The torc hummed hot on Teren's neck.
Blood runs first. Yours next.
A woman stumbled in the street, dragging a girl by the wrist. "She's not mine," she cried, voice raw. "I swear she's not mine." The girl wailed, clawing at her hand. "Mama, don't let go."
The Marshal shoved the woman back against a wall. "Name her."
The woman gasped. Her lips moved. For a moment, no sound came. Then the name fell, broken but clear. The girl collapsed into sobs and clung to her.
The torc pulsed sharp. Keep the strong ties. Snap the rest.
Teren pressed a hand to his throat. "No."
Brann's eyes flicked to him. "You anchorin'?"
"Trying," Teren muttered.
"Try harder."
Cut Street reeked of sweat and iron. Soldiers leaned against walls, sleeves rolled up, cloth soaked red. The wounds weren't from fighting. They'd split themselves open, searching for blood that didn't belong. Their veins looked dark, like ink trying to crawl free.
Neris crouched by one man, pulling back his sleeve. "Pulse is strong. But the blood—" She touched the bead that welled from a cut. "Too thick. Too dark. Not sick. Unwritten."
The torc pressed harder. Teren's vision blurred gray. Threads of blood rose from the soldiers, from the crowd, even from Neris and Brann. All of them stretched toward his throat.
Mine.
He staggered. Brann caught him under the arm. "Stay with me, Vale."
Teren forced anchors. "Rain. Rope. Apples."
The threads snapped back. The collar pulsed once, steady, smug, like a heart that wasn't his.
By nightfall, the Office chamber boiled with nobles. The air stank of sweat, ink, and fear. Benches groaned under the weight of too many bodies leaning forward, desperate for answers.
An Archivist unrolled a scroll with shaking hands. His voice cracked. "House Merrow has lost three full lines. Erased. Their children belong to no one."
A woman stood, her jewels clattering. "Then we're free."
"No," another spat back, face pale. "You're soil without a root. Nothing grows."
Shouts tangled in the air. Freedom, doom, curses. The torc burned cold-hot, choking Teren with iron taste. Cut the lines. Feed the crown.
The Marshal slammed her palm flat on the table. The crack silenced half the room. "If you panic, the city burns. If you anchor, the city breathes."
No one breathed easier.
A noble leaned forward, sweat streaking his brow. "If bloodlines vanish, do titles vanish with them?"
"Yes," another said, almost eager. "The Crown decides. And the Crown is listening."
Eyes flicked to Teren.
The iron thrummed at his throat.
They look to you. Let me answer.
He clenched his jaw until it ached.
Serin Haldrin rose smooth as light. His vowflame shimmered at his throat, casting gold across stone.
"Blood fails," he said, calm, certain. "Houses fail. But vows—" he lifted his hand, and the flame bent like it obeyed—"vows endure."
The chamber leaned toward him without meaning to. Faces softened. Heads nodded. Some whispered oaths under their breath, testing the weight of his words.
The torc flared hotter. He is not wrong. Choose me instead.
Serin's eyes cut to Teren. "Or do you prefer your iron leash, Vale?"
Heat crawled under Teren's skin. His hand twitched before he forced it into his cloak.
Neris leaned close. "Ignore him. Anchor."
Brann muttered, "He wants you to break. Don't give him the gift."
Serin's smile sharpened. He spread his hands. "We need leaders who aren't chained to dying roots. Who aren't cursed to choke every time the city gasps. We need fire that listens. Not iron that steals."
A cheer rippled through the benches. Weak at first, then swelling.
The torc squeezed, hard enough to bruise. Answer him. Prove them wrong. Or give me the word and I'll do it for you.
Teren's breath stuttered. He stared at the flames dancing on Serin's throat, perfect, obedient, beautiful. And he hated it.
"Rain," he whispered. "Rope. Apples."
The collar loosened a finger's width. Just enough.
The Marshal's eyes flicked between them, sharp as knives. "Enough speeches. We end this night or the city won't see dawn."
At midnight, she shoved them into the Quiet Room.
No frost. No sparks. Just blood.
Thin streams seeped from the grooves in the floor. They slid to the center, pooling into a crown-shaped smear.
The torc burned so cold his teeth ached.
Drink. Swear. Bind blood to blood.
His knees buckled. Neris caught his arm. "Don't answer it."
Brann braced his stance, wide and solid. "He won't."
The smear writhed. Blood lifted into threads, weaving a crown in the air. Broken. One piece missing.
The iron tightened like a fist. Take it. Own it. Make it yours.
Teren clenched his jaw until it hurt. "Rain. Rope. Apples."
The blood hissed. A strand whipped forward, snapping into the iron. Heat lanced his scar, sharp enough to drop him.
He gagged on metal taste. The mirror scrawled itself in red letters:
EIGHTH FRAGMENT CLAIMED. BLOOD OWNS.
His body locked stiff. For a heartbeat, he wasn't sure if it was his blood moving anymore.
Neris pressed both hands to his chest, voice low but steady. "Anchor. Stay with me."
Brann gripped his shoulders like a vise. "Breathe, Vale. Don't give it all."
The torc pulsed once, hungry, dragging at his veins. Give me one. Just one bond. I'll keep it safe.
He thought of Neris's braid, Brann's steady hands, the Marshal's flat eyes. He thought of Serin's flame.
"Rain," he rasped. "Rope. Apples."
The torc hissed. The blood crown shuddered, then shattered into droplets. They spattered across the floor, staining the grooves.
The mirror flickered.
FRAGMENT SECURED. HOST MARKED.
The iron ridges on his throat dug deeper. Jagged as broken teeth.
He gasped. Neris caught his head in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Still you?"
His voice cracked. "Still me."
"Not all of you," she said. "But enough."
Brann's arms stayed locked around him, heavy as stone. "We hold, Vale. That's the work."
The Marshal's gaze didn't waver. "Vale, if that thing moves again, I cut your throat before it crowns you."
Neris shoved past her, eyes sharp as glass. "He's still here."
Serin leaned against the doorframe, his light dim but still smug. "For how long?"
The torc purred low against Teren's skin. Not long.