The Burnpit glowed like a dying star, its flames licking the night, casting Ruttenmark's Gut in flickering gold and shadow. The air was thick with ash and laughter, brittle as the bones of the boar roasting over the fire. T
eon Grivalt sat on a crate, his knife carving slivers from a stick, each cut steady, deliberate, like he was peeling back his own skin. His Rot Mark itched, a dull burn under his leathers, quieter than in the Scarline but still there, whispering. Soon.
He didn't look at the fire, didn't look at the squad, didn't look at the crows perched on the plaza's oak, their eyes black as buried secrets. He just carved, the spiral taking shape, its edges curling like the thorns that choked the Gut's alleys, like the veins of the earth itself were bleeding sap.
Sura Lenhart knelt by the fire, turning the boar's spit, her fingers deft despite the blisters still tender from the sigil she'd touched in the alley. Her music box sat beside her, its cracked lid glinting, carved with thorns that seemed to writhe in the firelight.
It hadn't played since the day her mother died—not because it was broken, but because it only played that one song. She hummed softly, a melody that wasn't quite a song, the notes curling like smoke.
"Teon," she said, not looking up, "you keep carving that stick to nothing, we'll use it for kindling." Her voice was warm, teasing, but her eyes flicked to him, searching, like she could see the mark through his leathers.
Brik Roan laughed, a bark that scattered the kids lurking for scraps. He sprawled across two crates, his iron bat propped against his knee, the Iron Dog brand on his glove catching the firelight.
"Let him carve," he said, grinning. "Gives him something to do besides brooding. Ain't that right, Lune?" He nudged his sister with his boot, playful but careful, like he was testing a bruise.
Lune didn't answer, her silver eye fixed on the rooftops, her blind one hidden under her hood. Her knife scraped her whetstone, a rhythm like a heartbeat, steady, unyielding.
She tilted her head, just enough to say I'm listening, but her silence was sharper, cutting through Brik's noise like a blade through fog.
Doma Velk sat apart, his cane planted in the dirt, his red-ringed eyes tracing the fire's dance. His fingers clutched a prayer paper, crumpled, half-burned, like he'd tried to offer it to the flames and changed his mind.
"Fire's too hungry tonight," he muttered, voice cracked like old parchment. "Eats more than it's given." No one answered, but Teon's knife paused, the spiral's thorns mirroring the ones snaking up the oak's bark, as if the tree had caught his mark's fever.
The squad's banter was a ritual, a fragile shield against the Gut's rot. Kids darted through the shadows, their laughter sharp, trading stolen apples for rusted nails. A drunk staggered past, muttering about the "Hollowreach whisperer" stirring trouble, his words slurred but heavy, like stones dropped in a well. Teon didn't look up, but his mark burned, a faint pulse, like it was listening.
"Pass the meat," Brik said, breaking the quiet. He tore a strip from the boar, grease dripping down his scarred hands. "Sura, you gonna sing us that lullaby or just hum it like a ghost?" His grin was wide, but his eyes flicked to the oak, where the crows had doubled, their feathers blending with the night.
Sura's hum stopped, her fingers freezing on the spit.
"It's not a lullaby," she said, softer, her voice carrying a weight she didn't explain.
"Just something my mother used to sing." She reached for her music box, then stopped, her blistered fingers curling. "You don't want to hear it."
"I do," Lune said, her voice a blade, cutting through the fire's crackle. Her whetstone stopped, the silence louder than her words.
"Sing it."
Teon's knife stilled. He didn't look at Sura, but he felt her hesitation, felt the air shift, like the Gut was holding its breath. Sura exhaled, slow, and began, her voice low, trembling, like she was pulling it from a wound:
"The rot that remembers will name the world lost,
Crows forget their wings at a terrible cost.
When the flame is born from a grief that won't fade,
The marked will rise, and the truth will be paid."
The fire flared, too high, too red, throwing shadows that twisted like thorns. The crows stirred, one cawing sharp enough to cut the night. Teon's mark burned, a claw under his skin, and for a heartbeat, he saw her again—his mother, her face lit by candlelight, singing those same words over his crib, her eyes wet with fear. Hide it, Teon. He blinked, and she was gone, but the mark throbbed, alive, answering the song.
Doma's cane tapped once, hard, like a judge's gavel.
"That's no lullaby," he said, his voice a whisper that carried like a scream.
"That's 'The Rot That Remembers.' Banned by the Ash Clergy. Sung by those who wanted to die." His eyes locked on Sura, then Teon, sharp despite their weight.
"I read that verse once in a scroll that wasn't supposed to exist. When I quoted it to the Ash Clergy, they took my tongue for seven days. You should stop bleeding that mark into trees, Teon. Someone old might remember it."
The fire hissed, and silence fell, heavy, like ash after a storm. Sura's fingers twitched toward her music box, then stopped. Brik reached for Lune's wrist—just a twitch of his fingers. She didn't pull away, but she didn't look at him either. Their silence held more than any of them could name.
Teon stood, his carved stick falling to the dirt, the spiral half-formed, bleeding sap like the oak. "Enough," he said, voice low, heavy, cutting through the dread.
"We've got a job. Mayor wants us at the tower before dawn." The smuggling run—herbs, sigil scraps—was routine, but Gregor's ledger wasn't, its page dog-eared where Teon's name bled through in red. He didn't say it, didn't need to. The squad felt it, the weight of something coming, something they couldn't outrun.
Brik cracked his knuckles, forcing a laugh. "What's Gregor hiding this time? Another tax? Or something worse?" He glanced at the oak, at the crows, and his laugh died, hollow.
"Something worse," Lune said, her knife resuming its scrape, slow, deliberate. "Always is."
Sura packed her satchel, her movements quick, like she was running from her own song. "We'll know when we know," she said, but her eyes lingered on Teon, searching, like she saw the mark's burn through his leathers.
Doma didn't move, his prayer paper crumbling in his fist. "You ever wonder why the crows watch?" he asked, to no one, to everyone. "They're not here for us. They're here for what we forgot." He tossed the paper into the fire. It burned too fast, the flames curling like a spiral, like Teon's mark.
Far above the firelight, past the rooftops and gutter smoke, something watched. It didn't blink. It didn't breathe. But it remembered.
Teon turned toward the tower, where Gregor's shadow loomed, ledger in hand, eyes like nails. The crows followed his gaze, their wings rustling, a whisper of their own. Somewhere behind them, deep in the Gut, a child hummed the same melody Sura had sung—out of tune, out of place, out of time. The fire hissed like it remembered.