The weight of the Book had not lifted. In fact, it had only deepened, sinking into Rowan's chest, until it felt as though the pages themselves had melded with his heart. Every word he had ever written, every line he had read, had led him to this moment. But the end was no nearer. The city—this living, breathing labyrinth—was still watching, still waiting.
Voss stood in the corner, his eyes dark as the shadows that crept across the walls of the Chamber of Dials. He had no need to say anything more. His presence was enough. The Wardens stood at attention like silent sentinels, their eyes tracking every flicker of Rowan's movements. They were waiting for him to make a decision, to write a line that would either bind the city forever or rip it apart at the seams.
Rowan's fingers were stiff, his grip on the Book tightening with each breath. The room felt colder than it had before, colder than it ever should have been, and yet, he could feel the heat beneath his skin. The heat of power. The heat of inevitability. The Book was more than just a tool; it was a destiny, a curse wrapped in paper and ink. And it was now bound to him, as much as he was bound to it.
The Assay Dial ticked in the corner, marking time, unbothered by the weight of the moments that passed. The room was still, but it was heavy with a thousand unsaid things. It was as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for Rowan to speak, to make the final move. And yet, he stood frozen, the words stuck in his throat, the path ahead as unclear as it had ever been.
"You must choose," Voss said, breaking the silence at last, his voice calm, measured. But underneath it, there was a tinge of something else. "The Book demands a price. You know this."
Rowan didn't respond. He couldn't. The weight of the Book had lodged itself in his throat, making it impossible to speak. It wasn't fear that gripped him—at least not entirely—but something far worse. Doubt.
He had always known power came with a price. But this? This was a price he hadn't expected to pay. Not for this.
The Book was not just a tool of law; it was a tool of history. It was a keeper of secrets. And those secrets, Rowan realized now, were not his to know. He was only the messenger. But the messengers never left unchanged.
Voss took a step forward, his boots barely making a sound on the cold stone floor. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "The Book will make a choice for you if you don't make it yourself. And if you think it will be merciful… you are wrong."
Rowan's eyes flicked to Voss, but he didn't reply. He had no words to give. The silence between them stretched out, until it felt like the room itself had become a part of the decision.
A shift in the air. A sense that something was about to break. Rowan swallowed, the weight in his chest pressing harder, suffocating him. He could almost hear the city's pulse, pounding in the walls, in the floor, in his very bones.
"You have made your choices," Voss continued. "But now, you must face the consequences. The Book is yours, but the city is not."
Rowan blinked, his mind racing. The words didn't make sense. And yet, they did. Voss was right. The Book was his, yes. But the city—the people, the power, the future—was something far more fragile than he had ever realized. The Book could hold the weight of history, but it could never hold the weight of a living, breathing city.
"What do you want me to do, Voss?" Rowan asked, his voice rough, breaking through the fog of his own uncertainty. "What do you want from me?"
Voss didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped toward Rowan, each movement slow, deliberate, like a man who had spent years perfecting the art of waiting.
"I want you to see the truth," Voss said finally, his voice colder than ever. "I want you to see what you've created. What you will become. There is no turning back from this, Rowan. Not now."
Rowan's heart pounded in his chest, a harsh, insistent rhythm that threatened to drown out everything else. He looked down at the Book, its cover still smooth and unyielding, its pages still closed to him. He could feel it calling to him, the weight of its knowledge, its power. But he also felt the weight of the city, pressing down on him, waiting for him to make a choice that would decide its future.
The decision was his. But what was the right choice? What was the wrong one?
"You've already made it," Voss said, as though reading his mind. "The Book has already written your future. It's only a matter of what you'll do with it."
Rowan's breath came in shallow bursts, his mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts. He could feel the Book in his hands, its power thrumming beneath his fingertips, and yet, he felt nothing but emptiness. The price was there, hovering just out of reach, waiting for him to acknowledge it.
A sharp, almost imperceptible sound broke through the silence. Tess's voice, quiet, hesitant.
"Rowan, the page is waiting."
The words pierced through his fog, sharp and clear. The Book was waiting. It was not his choice to make. It was already made.
Rowan turned, his eyes meeting Tess's. The fear in her gaze mirrored his own, but there was something else there, too—something resolute.
The Book had made its choice, and now, it was up to Rowan to live with it. The city would change, as would he. Whether he liked it or not.
With a deep breath, Rowan stepped forward, his fingers still tight on the Book. He spoke the words, low and steady, the sentence not his but the city's.
"Let the page sleep for appeal. Let the witness breathe. Let the transfer be written."
The words hung in the air, heavy, final.
And with that, Rowan knew that the path ahead would never be the same.