Cael did not return to the warehouse. Instead, he walked. The city had a way of swallowing a man's thoughts if he let it. The alleys here were a labyrinth of shadows and false turns, the stones slick with old rain. Lanterns burned low in iron sconces, their glow paling against dawn's chill. He moved without conscious aim, letting instinct guide his feet.
By midday, he had crossed from the northern counting houses into the southern quarter, where the river carved a winding path through rows of collapsed docks. It was here that he had first learned to pick a lock, long before he knew the weight of debt or the taste of fear.
The docks had been dying even then, their cranes rusted and their warehouses hollow. Some said the Spire's influence poisoned the commerce that passed too near its shadow. Others blamed simple greed.He had never cared much which was true.
But now, every story felt like a warning he'd failed to heed.
He paused at the end of a wharf. Rotten pilings jutted from the water like the ribs of a carcass. Wind slid cold across the back of his neck. In that moment, he understood with perfect clarity that he could still run.He could vanish over the hills. Find some nameless village far from the Spire's reach.But he also knew it would not matter.
The Spire remembers.
He gripped the railing until splinters bit his palms. A memory rose unbidden: the sound of a voice he could no longer place, calling his name from across a threshold. For an instant, the sense of loss was so raw he thought he might stagger. And then it was gone, a ripple swallowed by the dark.
He turned from the water and walked back toward the city.
By dusk, he had made his way to the Hall of Scribes.If there was any place left that kept records older than Brennor's ledgers, it was here.
The Hall was a fortress in miniature—a square edifice of black basalt, its lintels carved with the crests of dead dynasties. A line of petitioners trailed down the steps, clutching sheaves of parchment, all of them hoping to have some scrap of their past verified or erased.
Cael did not stand in line.Instead, he circled to a narrow side entrance marked Clerks Only and waited until a pair of apprentices emerged, carrying a crate between them.
He fell into step behind them as they navigated the alley, then slipped inside before the door swung shut.
The interior was cavernous, lined floor to ceiling with shelves. Scribes perched at desks, their quills scratching in a constant, whispering chorus. At the far end of the main hall stood a door carved with the sigil of the High Archivist.
Cael knew he would not be welcome here if he were recognized. But he also knew he would not leave without what he came for.
He moved with quiet purpose down a row of shelves.Each aisle was marked by an iron placard: Family Writs,Commercial Ledgers,Debtors' Oaths,Founding Charters.
He paused at the last.Founding Charters.
If the Spire predated the city, this was where the earliest mentions would be.
He scanned the shelves, his gloved fingers brushing spines of vellum and wood. Most bore dates too recent to matter. But near the bottom, nearly hidden beneath a collapsed stack of smaller codices, he found a volume bound in black hide, stamped with a sigil he did not recognize - a tower crowned by a single, unblinking eye.
His pulse quickened.
He crouched, easing the volume free.
A voice spoke behind him.
"I wouldn't touch that, friend."
Cael did not turn immediately. Instead, he closed the book, rising with slow deliberation.
A man stood at the end of the aisle; broad-shouldered, wearing the robes of a senior scribe, but with a watchful stillness that did not belong to any clerk.
"Who are you?" Cael asked.
The man's smile was thin. "Someone tasked with ensuring the Spire's memory is not diluted by thieves."
He stepped forward. His left eye was milky white, a ruin of old scarring.
"You've made yourself known," the scribe went on. "And now you presume to steal again."
Cael's grip tightened on the book. "I'm not stealing."
"You think the Spire cares what you call it?"
"I think," Cael said softly, "I don't have time to argue."
He moved in the space of a heartbeat.His hand snapped up, flinging a small vial to shatter at the man's feet. Acrid smoke billowed instantly. The scribe staggered back, coughing, and Cael was already moving, weaving through the aisles.
The main hall erupted in shouts.
He slipped between two apprentices and vaulted over a stack of crates, landing hard on the marble tiles. Scribes scattered as he sprinted for the front entrance.
At the threshold, a clerk lunged for him. Cael ducked, shouldering the man aside, and burst into the dusk.
The street beyond was chaos; petitioners shrieking, and guards converging. Cael ran, breath tearing in his chest. Down an alley. Across a yard. Over a low wall and into a warren of staircases that led toward the river.
He did not stop until the Hall's bell faded behind him.
When he finally dared to look down, the book was still clutched in his arms, its black hide warm to the touch.
He exhaled shakily.
In the shelter of a ruined colonnade, he opened it.The text was written in a dense, archaic hand.
Here begins the First Charter of Debt, sworn by the Lords Founding, in witness of the Unfailing Spire, which bears record of all accounts past, present, and yet to come…
He skimmed further.
And let it be known that any who claim a record within this vault, whether in truth or deceit, surrender unto the Spire the measure of their own remembrance, until the account be settled or the debtor be erased.
A cold sweat prickled his skin.
He read the line again.
Surrender unto the Spire the measure of their own remembrance.
He understood now why memories had slipped away like water from a broken cup. The Spire had taken them as collateral.
His hand trembled as he closed the book.
For the first time, he felt something like pity for all the nameless souls whose lives had been bartered to the Spire. They had not all been fools. Some had simply believed they had no choice.
And some, like him, had been told too late what they had signed away.
He rose, slipping the book into the satchel. The wind off the river carried the distant tolling of the Spire's bells.
It sounded almost like laughter.