The Playhouse seemed to inhale, rafters groaning like lungs filled with smoke. Dust sifted from the cracked dome, catching in the stage-lights that were not lit but glowed anyway. The audience leaned forward, silent, breath shallow. They were no longer puppets, yet they were not free either. They were witnesses now, bound by expectation. And expectation is a chain more cruel than porcelain.
Casimir Rook stood bare-faced, his ruined grin splitting his cheeks like a wound. His skin was ink-stained, tally-marks etched into his flesh like a life measured only in debts. His eyes burned with fanatic hunger. Yet beneath the hunger, I saw fear. Not of Seraphine. Not of the crowd. Fear of the Ledger.
He staggered toward me, cloak of confessions dragging behind him, leaving scraps of ink and parchment across the stage. "You think you can end me with paper?" he spat. "You think you can close the book on Casimir Rook? I am the stage, clerk. I am applause. I am the only breath this city has left!"
The Ledger flared in my arms, its pages whipping in an unseen wind. Ink scrawled across the parchment:
Judgment Sequence Initiated.
Debtor exposed. Options available.
Option One: Full Redline—Erase debt entirely. Cost: Identity dissolution.
Option Two: Ledger Balance—Absorb debt. Cost: Lifespan reduced.
Option Three: Transfer—Bind debtor to another. Cost: Shared corruption.
My stomach turned. All three were death sentences, in their way. To erase him would erase me. To absorb him would shorten my life until I was nothing but ink-stains. To transfer him… my eyes flicked to Seraphine. Her iron arm hissed as she planted herself between me and Rook, unflinching. If I chose that path, it would bind her to him.
Seraphine's eyes met mine, grey and hard. "Choose, Varrow. Quickly."
Rook lunged. His claws were not claws at all but quills sharpened to points, black ink dripping like venom. He slashed across the boards, leaving scars that smoked, and the stage screamed like a living thing. The audience gasped, clutching their throats, as if the sound alone cut them.
I staggered back. The candle-mark on my palm blazed, guttering, almost spent. The Spine of Iron seared, marrow crackling with strain. Every beat of my heart felt like it might be the last.
Rook shrieked, voice breaking. "You owe me, clerk! Without me you'd still be ballast! Without me, no one would watch you burn!"
The Ledger's ink scrawled furiously:
Curtain-call imminent. Debtor's claim false. Response required.
I raised my voice, raw and torn. "No. You don't own me. You never did. And the city doesn't owe you applause!"
The crowd stirred, voices rising. Some wept, some shouted, some prayed. But they were no longer clapping. They were no longer feeding him.
Seraphine's iron arm blazed, pistons screeching, runes alight like molten veins. She stepped beside me, her presence steady. "Whatever you choose," she said low, "do it now. Don't let him write the ending."
Rook lunged again, faster, ink-slick claws aimed at my throat. I thrust the Ledger between us. Its pages opened wide, catching his strike. Ink splattered, sizzling as if it burned him. He howled, his face splitting further, maskless grin unraveling into raw flesh.
The Ledger screamed its options once more:
Redline. Balance. Transfer. Curtain-fall.
The chandeliers swung wildly. Velvet curtains snapped like sails in a storm. The stageboards buckled. The whole Playhouse seemed ready to collapse into the river.
The audience leaned forward as one, breath caught, eyes wide. Witnesses. They would remember whatever ending was written here. Their belief would seal it.
My voice broke as I cried out the choice—
—End of Chapter 16—