The Gut exhaled ash, its alleys choked with thorns, their shadows stitching wounds that bled grey.
Teon Grivalt led the squad through a crumbling vein, his Rot Mark searing under his leathers, a claw that wouldn't sleep. The scroll in his belt hummed—a dirge of rusted chains, whispering Teon, burn them. Mayla's lullaby gnawed his mind:
The rot that remembers…
Ash patterns swirled on the frost, their edges thorned, like the spirals in the shrine, like the noose that named him. Crows circled above, one with a third eye glinting, its thorned beak silent but watching.
Sura Lenhart stumbled beside him, 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 that tightened with each step. Her eyes were hollow, her breaths shallow, the dirge pulling her.
Brik Roan trailed, his iron bat dragging, the Iron Dog brand on his glove pulsing in sync with the ash, forge-born, silent.
Lune Roan matched his step, her silver eye dim, her blind one hidden, her knife sheathed but restless.
Doma Velk limped behind, his cane sinking into ash, his red-ringed eyes flickering like a dying torch, muttering,
"The named don't escape the flame."
They collapsed in a ruined courtyard, its stones etched with faint, thorned scratches—not spirals, but close, like the blood trails, like the shrine's carvings.
Teon's mark burned, the scroll's dirge a blade in his skull. Guilt clawed him—his reckless choice to split them led to Vraek, to the massacre, to Mira's locket.
Wrong or not, I decided.
He wanted to tear the scroll open, to silence its voice, but his hand froze, his name a fire in his veins. The squad's trust was ash, their scars—Teon's mark, Sura's sigil, Brik and Lune's pits, Doma's burns—screaming louder than the Gut's silence.
Brik sank against a wall, his bat limp, his brand pulsing.
"You broke us, Teon,"
he whispered, not growling, his silence heavier than rage. His pit scars burned—screams, iron, a forge that broke him.
"I saw you hesitate. You saw yourself in him."
His eyes flicked to Lune, his anchor crumbling, a forge-born shadow in his gaze.
Lune's silver eye wavered, her pit brands itching, chains meant to be spirals.
"I doubted you,"
she said, voice soft, cracking, her blind eye fixed on Teon.
"I swore I'd never doubt my blood, but you led us to him."
Her fingers grazed her knife, trembling, the Burnpit's screams echoing: chains, fire, a vow broken.
"What's in that scroll, Teon? What's it naming?"
Sura's scar stilled, her blood noose fading on the frost, the music box quiet. She leaned against Teon, her hand brushing his, a fleeting closeness.
"It's stopped,"
she whispered, eyes meeting his, a fragile calm.
"Maybe we're free."
The squad exhaled, their scars silent, the ash steaming like breath held too long.
A crow cawed, its third eye glinting, and the calm shattered. Sura's scar flared, blood echoing, the music box screaming:
Crows forget their wings.
Its thorns drew blood, not just from her flesh, but from the air—a price paid in echoes.
"It's not free,"
she said, voice trembling, a tear like blood on snow.
"It's naming us."
Her blood stitched the ash, a noose tightening, as if the "three-eyed crow" watched.
Teon's mark roared, a vision flashing—snow, Mayla's lullaby, Why does it hurt? The scroll's dirge called his name, urging him to open it. He gripped it, reckless, his choice to split them a wound that wouldn't close.
"I led us to him,"
he said, voice raw, a boy's fear in a man's throat.
"But I won't let it name me."
His knife pressed against the scroll's seal, trembling, a defiance that could burn them all.
Doma's eyes flickered, a dying torch. He hesitated, lips parting as if to pray, but no words came—only a whisper,
"They told me we'd be spared…"
His voice broke, his Clergy scars burning—texts burned, lives lost, faith ash.
"You can't unname yourself,"
he said, eyes dimming.
"The Hollowreach remembers. The crow sees."
His cane sank deeper, ash swirling into a thorned pattern, like the shrine, like Vraek's locket.
The patrol's lanterns flickered in the distance, boots crunching ash beyond the courtyard's edge. A voice cut through, a metallic tang, like blood on a whetstone, trailing a whisper of steel:
"Alive, if possible. Whole, if necessary."
A patrolman glanced at his hand—two fingers missing, badly healed, flinching at Kcel's voice, muttering,
"Yes, Inquisitor Kcel."
Teon's mark recoiled, the scroll's dirge deafening. The ash patterns glowed faintly, thorned, alive, as if the
"three-eyed crow"
stirred.
Brik's voice broke, soft, a plea.
"Don't let us burn, Teon."
Lune's knife gleamed, her hand brushing his, faltering.
"We're marked, not martyrs,"
she whispered, her doubt a blade. Sura's scar bled faster, her music box screaming.
"It's waking,"
she said, clutching it, thorns biting. Teon's mark screamed, the scroll's voice a fire in his veins, naming him.
The crow's shadow stretched, too long, too thin, like Vraek's—twisted, wrong, like memory carved into bone. Teon didn't run from the ash. He ran from what it named him.