The Gut twisted like a fevered vein, shadows pooling where thorns stabbed stone, their edges sharp as grief.
Teon Grivalt led the squad through a narrow cut, his Rot Mark searing under his leathers, a claw that wouldn't sleep. The scroll, hidden in his belt, hummed—whispers not human, curling like a vine choking a bell. His mark pulsed, The flame is coming, a ghost of Mayla's voice:
The rot that remembers…
Crows perched on broken beams, one with a third eye cracked open, its thorned beak silent but watching. Alley walls bore graffiti—jagged scars, half-erased, like the log he'd carved in childhood snow, like the noose tightening in his dreams.
Sura Lenhart stumbled behind, her satchel dragging, the music box's thorns glinting in torchlight. Her blistered hand, wrapped in a blood-crusted rag, trembled, the spiral scar—visible only to Teon—flaring red, singing for release. Her breaths were shallow, eyes lost in a memory not hers.
Brik Roan kept close, his iron bat slung low, the Iron Dog brand on his glove flecked with dried blood.
Lune Roan shadowed him, her silver eye sharp, her blind one hidden, her knife a restless weight. Doma Velk limped last, his cane tapping frost, his red-ringed eyes tracing the graffiti, muttering,
"The blood sings too loud."
They reached a derelict hovel, its roof half-caved, thorns choking its doorframe. Teon stopped, his mark burning, the scroll's hum a knife in his skull, Mayla's whisper faint: …will name the world lost. Gregor's lie—Just growing pains—cut deeper, the graffiti a mirror to that snowbound log, to Sura's blood.
"We wait here,"
he said, voice low, cracked, the weight of secrets fraying the squad's trust.
Brik kicked a stone, his bat slamming the ground, the Iron Dog brand pulsing, as if the iron remembered—not just fire, but the forge that birthed it.
"Wait? For what, Teon? More knives?"
His voice was raw, eyes on Lune, pleading.
"You knew what that mark was, Teon. You knew, and you brought us anyway."
His hand twitched toward hers, then stopped, a pit-born scar holding him back.
Lune's silver eye flashed, her fingers grazing her side, where pit brands itched, as if they were meant to be spirals.
"Burn it, and what? Forget?"
Her voice was a blade, soft but sharp.
"Like the Clergy wants?"
She stepped toward Sura, knife drawn, guarding, her blind eye seeing too much.
"She's bleeding for it. You want to erase her too?"
Her pit scars—chains, not spirals—burned in her silence, screams from the dark.
Sura sank against the hovel's wall, her rag falling away. Her hand glowed, the spiral scar flaring, thorned, invisible to the others but a wound in Teon's gaze. Blood seeped, pooling on the frost, curling not into a spiral but a noose, tightening.
"It's worse,"
she whispered, eyes locked on Teon's, raw, terrified.
"It's singing. Like my mother did."
The music box hummed, a fragment of the lullaby: Crows forget their wings. Her scar pulsed, each drop a note, a call.
"It wants out."
Teon's mark screamed, a vision flashing—snow, Mayla's lullaby, Why does it hurt? He grabbed her wrist, gentle but firm, his mark burning hotter, like a mirror to her blood. He didn't know if he was stopping her—or himself from following. Her blood felt too close, like the mark wasn't his alone anymore.
"Don't,"
he said, voice raw, a boy's fear in a man's throat. The scroll's hum grew, whispers clawing:
Call them, wake them, burn them.
The noose in Sura's blood glowed, alive, a pattern etched in his nightmares.
Doma's cane slammed the floor, sharp.
"You were born for fire, Teon. We weren't."
His voice was cold, heavy with forbidden texts.
"It's blood sigil. Old as Hollowreach. A key."
His eyes flicked to the graffiti, then Sura's hand, though he couldn't see her scar. His voice dropped, a chill:
"They say Kcel carves spirals into his victims' tongues."
He paused, eyes darkening.
"Clergy patrols are moving. Hunting the marked."
Brik's bat rose, his voice a growl.
"Then we fight. No more secrets."
His brand pulsed, red, angry, forge-born. Lune's hand reached for his, subconscious, fleeting, her silver eye soft but sharp.
"Fight what, Brik? The scroll? Her?"
She nodded at Sura, whose blood stained the frost, the noose tightening, unseen by them but searing Teon's eyes.
The air shifted, colder, heavier. Footfalls echoed—boots, too many. Clergy patrols. A voice, low and cold, drifted through the fog, too measured for a soldier:
"Alive, if possible. Whole, if necessary."
A patrolman flinched, muttering,
"Yes, Inquisitor Kcel."
Teon's mark roared, the scroll's hum deafening. He pulled the squad into the hovel's shadow, his knife drawn, sap and blood flecked on its edge. The patrol passed, their lanterns casting thorns on the walls, their leader's cloak bearing a three-eyed crow sigil, thorned, like Gregor's ledger. The crows cawed, chanting:
Forget their names, forget their names.
Sura's scar flared, blood dripping faster, the noose curling tighter, like it heard Kcel's voice. She clutched the music box, its thorns biting her palm, her voice a whisper.
"It's not just my mother's song. It's older. It's… calling something."
Her eyes met Teon's, a tear like blood on snow.
"What if we're not hiding it? What if it's hiding us?"
Teon's mark burned, a fire answering her blood, Mayla's whisper faint: …name the world lost. The scroll's hum was a thousand rusted chains, a scent of burnt hair in the air. A shape in the mist, too many joints, too many eyes, stood wrong, like memory carved into bone. His mark recoiled, as if it knew the whisperer.
"We don't open it,"
he said, voice low, final, but his hand trembled, the scroll a noose. Brik's bat hung limp, Lune's knife gleamed, Doma's eyes burned, and Sura's blood sang—thorned, jagged, a promise of fire.
The Gut was bleeding, and their scars sang louder than its silence.