The Gut's alleys writhed, thorns clawing stone, their 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, its edges peeling back like a wound, veins of black ink pulsing with each whisper: Teon, burn them, then shifting, soft as a lover: Lune, open me.
Mayla's lullaby gnawed his mind: The rot that remembers… Frost carvings snaked across the ground, thorned veins of light, pulsing like a second set of scars, like the shrine's spirals, like the noose that named him.
Crows swarmed above, one with a third eye glinting—like the sigil on Kcel's cloak—chanting:
Know their names.
Sura Lenhart stumbled beside him, her satchel dragging, the music box's thorns hooking 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 purr curling around her name: Sura, open me.
Brik Roan trailed, his iron bat scraping frost, the Iron Dog brand on his glove pulsing in sync with the carvings, forge-born, silent.
While Lune Roan matched his step, her silver eye dim, her blind one hidden, itching, the crow's voice louder in its darkness.
They ducked into a collapsed chapel, its rafters splintered, thorns piercing the pews like veins. Blade scratches marred the altar, not random—each thorn curved like the shrine's cursed spirals. 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 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 parchment throbbing, a word slipping out—"Mi…"—his voice barely a whisper, soul fraying.
His knife trembled against the seal, the name Mira a test he barely passed.
Kcel's lanterns flickered closer, his silhouette warping—too many joints, too many fingers that weren't missing anymore. His voice cut through, 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."
A patrolman flinched, his hand—two fingers gone—trembling, muttering,
"Yes, Inquisitor Kcel."
Teon's mark recoiled, the scroll's purr deafening. The frost carvings glowed, thorned, alive, as if the "three-eyed crow" stirred.
Sura's scar flared, the music box screaming: Crows forget their wings. Its thorns unspooled, piercing her palm—the blood didn't drip, it hung in the air, forming a jagged spiral, mirroring the chapel's walls.
"It's naming me,"
she whispered, clutching it, her eyes locked on Teon's.
"It said Sura, open me."
Her blood stitched the frost, a noose tightening. For a second, the purr fell silent. She grabbed Teon's hand, her breath steadying.
"We've lost them,"
she said, a heartbeat of hope. The squad exhaled, the frost steaming like breath held too long.
A crow cawed, its third eye glinting, and the hope shattered. The scroll purred again: Teon. Sura. Lune. Marked. Mine. Sura's scar bled faster, a tear like blood on frost—no, it was blood, thin and shimmering, as if the crow had licked it clean. "It's waking," she said, voice trembling.
Lune's silver eye snapped to Teon, her pit brands burning—chains meant to be spirals, twisting into the shrine's cursed patterns.
"In the Burnpit, I heard my name in fire,"
she whispered, voice cracking, her blind eye seeing too much.
"I thought I imagined it. But the scroll knew me first."
Her fingers grazed her knife, trembling, the Burnpit's screams echoing: chains, fire, a vow broken.
"You led us to this, Teon. It's naming us all."
Brik stood frozen, his bat limp, his brand pulsing with the frost carvings.
"You broke us,"
he whispered, his silence heavier than rage. His pit scars burned—screams, iron, a forge that broke him.
"Kcel's not the end. The crow is."
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 Clergy scars burning—texts burned, lives lost, faith ash.
"The crow's not a bird. It's a memory,"
he said, his cane sinking deeper, ash swirling into a thorned pattern.
"The name cuts deeper than the blade."
Teon's mark roared, a vision flashing—snow, Mayla's lullaby, Why does it hurt? The scroll's purr split his skull, naming them all. His knife pressed against the seal, trembling, a defiance that could burn them.
"I won't let it name us,"
he said, voice raw, a boy's fear in a man's throat. The chapel's blade scratches glowed in their wake—not guiding them, but writing their names in thorned light.
They fled through a thorned sewer, its walls slick with frost, blade scratches glowing faintly. Kcel's lanterns followed, his voice echoing:
"Give it to me."
The crows cawed, their third eyes chanting:
Know their names.
Sura's music box screamed, thorns hooking the air. Lune's secret burned, a truth she'd buried.
Teon didn't run from Kcel.
He ran from the name that cuts.