The Gut's alleys drowned in ash, their thorns clawing stone, shadows stitching wounds that bled grey.
Teon Grivalt led the squad through a fractured seam, his Rot Mark searing under his leathers, a claw that wouldn't sleep. The scroll in his belt purred—like a living thing—whispering Teon, burn them. Mayla's lullaby gnawed his mind:
The rot that remembers…
Blade scratches marred the walls, not random—each thorn curved like the shrine's cursed spirals. Crows perched on jagged eaves, one with a third eye glinting—like the sigil on Kcel's cloak—chanting:
Know their names.
Sura Lenhart clung to his side, her satchel heavy, the music box's thorns biting her hip. Her spiral scar—visible only to Teon—pulsed, blood stitching the frost, a noose tightening with each heartbeat. Her eyes were hollow, her breaths sharp, the scroll's voice shifting: Sura, open me.
Brik Roan trailed, his iron bat dragging, the Iron Dog brand on his glove pulsing in sync with the scratches, forge-born, silent.
Lune Roan matched his step, her silver eye dim, her blind one hidden, her knife sheathed but trembling.
Doma Velk limped behind, his cane sinking into ash, his red-ringed eyes pulsing like embers, muttering,
"The blade sees what the crow names."
They huddled in a sunken alcove, its stones scored with thorned blade scratches, like the ash patterns, like Vraek's locket. Teon's mark burned, the scroll's purr a white-hot brand in his skull.
Guilt clawed him—Mira's face flickered in the ash, her last scream echoing as the spirals closed around her—his choice to split them had painted the Gut in corpses: lookouts, kids, smugglers. Wrong or not, I decided. His fingers grazed the scroll, its voice curling around his name.
A word, not his, slipped into his head—Mira. He froze, soul fraying, his knife trembling against the scroll's seal.
Kcel emerged from the shadows, his cloak thorned, a three-eyed crow sigil glowing on his chest. His blade—etched with spirals weeping black fluid—gleamed, its edge humming the scroll's purr. His eyes were frost on a grave, two fingers missing from his left hand, badly healed.
"The marked bleed,"
he said, voice a metallic tang, like blood on a whetstone, trailing a whisper of steel.
"I lost more than fingers to the Hollowreach. You'll lose your face."
His patrol fanned out, one flinching at his voice, his own hand—two fingers gone—trembling.
Sura's scar flared, blood echoing, the music box screaming: Crows forget their wings. Its thorns unspooled like wire—not just biting her flesh, but hooking into the air itself, blood beading where no wound was.
"It's calling me,"
she whispered, voice trembling, clutching the box, her eyes locked on Teon's.
"It said my name—Sura, open me."
Her blood stitched the frost, a noose tightening, as if the "three-eyed crow" laughed.
Lune's silver eye wavered, her pit brands itching, chains meant to be spirals.
"You led us to this,"
she said, voice soft, cracking, her blind eye fixed on Teon.
"I doubted you, and now he's here."
Her fingers grazed her knife, trembling, the Burnpit's screams echoing: chains, fire, a vow broken.
"What's it naming, Teon? Us or you?"
Brik stood frozen, his bat limp, his brand pulsing with the blade scratches.
"You broke us,"
he whispered, his silence heavier than rage. His pit scars burned—screams, iron, a forge that broke him.
"He's not Vraek. He's worse."
His eyes flicked to Lune, his anchor gone, a forge-born shadow in his gaze.
Doma's eyes pulsed, embers fading.
"They told me we'd be spared…"
he whispered, his voice breaking, his Clergy scars burning—texts burned, lives lost, faith ash.
"The blade sees what the crow names,"
he said, his cane sinking deeper, ash swirling into a thorned pattern.
"Kcel's not hunting you, Teon. He's hunting the scroll."
Teon's mark roared, a vision flashing—snow, Mayla's lullaby, Why does it hurt? The scroll's purr split his skull, naming them both:
Teon.
Sura.
Marked.
Mine. For a second, it fell silent. His hand stopped shaking. A heartbeat of silence—hope? Then it named him again. His knife pressed against the scroll's seal, trembling, a defiance that could burn them all.
"I won't let it name us,"
he said, voice raw, a boy's fear in a man's throat.
Kcel stepped closer, his spiral-etched blade glinting.
"Give it to me,"
he said, voice calm, deadly. The crows cawed, their third eyes glinting, chanting: Know their names. The blade scratches glowed faintly, thorned, alive, as if the "three-eyed crow" stirred. Sura's scar bled faster, her music box screaming.
"It's waking,"
she said, clutching it, thorns hooking the air. Lune's knife gleamed, her hand brushing Brik's, faltering.
"We're marked, not martyrs,"
she whispered, her doubt a blade. Brik's voice broke, a plea.
"Don't let us burn, Teon."
Doma's eyes dimmed, his whisper faint:
"The blade cuts what the crow sees."
The crow's shadow stretched, too long, too thin, like Vraek's—twisted, wrong, like memory carved into bone.
Teon didn't run from Kcel. He ran from what the scroll named them.