The Gut exhaled ash as dawn broke, its alleys coiling like veins under a bruised sky.
Teon Grivalt led the squad through Shiver's Row, his boots crunching frost, the Rot Mark on his back burning hotter than the night before. The spiral carved into his skin felt alive, pulsing like a second heart, whispering Soon in time with his steps.
He didn't look back at the Burnpit, where the fire's embers still smoldered, nor at the oak, where crows—too many now—watched with eyes like polished obsidian. His knife hung heavy at his hip, the blade still flecked with sap from the stick he'd carved, its spiral now ash in the dirt.
Sura Lenhart walked beside him, her satchel slung low, the music box's thorns glinting faintly in the gray light. Her fingers, blistered from the sigil she'd touched two nights ago, flexed nervously, as if they remembered the burn. She hadn't sung since the lullaby, hadn't spoken of it, but her eyes darted to Teon's back, like she could see the mark through his leathers.
Brik Roan followed, his iron bat swinging lazily, the Iron Dog brand on his glove catching the dawn's red glow.
Lune Roan trailed, her silver eye scanning the rooftops, her blind one shadowed, her knife's scrape against her whetstone a quiet warning.
Doma Velk limped last, his cane tapping unevenly, his red-ringed eyes fixed on the ground, as if reading secrets in the frost.
The tower loomed ahead, its stone blackened by years of torch smoke, Mayor Gregor's shadow absent from the balcony. Teon's gut twisted, remembering the ledger, its page dog-eared where his name bled through in red. The marked threat grows, Gregor had written, the words Teon hadn't seen but felt, heavy as the lockbox's spiral pulse. The smuggling job—herbs, sigil scraps—was routine, but the air felt wrong, like the Gut was holding its breath.
They passed a merchant's stall, its canvas tattered, its owner—a wiry man with a scar splitting his brow—muttering to a kid trading nails for bread.
"Heard it in Hollowreach," the merchant said, voice low, urgent. "A three-eyed crow sigil on a cloak, burned into a door. They say it's a call, a mark of the whisperer." The kid shrugged, but Teon slowed, his mark burning sharper, a claw under his skin.
Doma's cane paused, his eyes flicking to the merchant, then away, like he'd heard the tale before.
"Keep moving," Teon said, voice low, heavy, cutting through the squad's silence. But the merchant's words lingered, a thorn in his mind.
Three-eyed crow.
Hollowreach whisperer.
The Rot Mark throbbed, and for a heartbeat, he saw his mother's shadow, her voice whispering over his crib: Hide it, Teon. Hide it, or it burns. He shook it off, but the burn stayed, deeper now, like the mark was digging for something buried.
The alley opened to a crumbling courtyard, its stones cracked, thorns snaking through the gaps like veins of a rotting heart. A kid, no older than ten, sat on a broken fountain, carving a spiral into the stone with a rusted nail. Teon froze, his hand on his knife, the mark searing.
"Stop that,"
he snapped, sharper than he meant. The kid bolted, leaving the spiral half-formed, its edges bleeding frost.
Sura touched his arm, her blistered fingers light but steady.
"You're not the only one who carves," she said, soft, searching. "Kids do it all over the Gut. Always have." Her eyes held his, caramel and sharp, like she saw the scar beneath his skin, the one no one else could.
Brik snorted, leaning on his bat. "Yeah, but they don't do it like it's a damn prayer."
He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes, which flicked to the rooftops, where crows gathered, their feathers glinting like oil.
"What's it mean, Teon? You gonna tell us, or we gotta wait for the world to burn?"
Lune's whetstone stopped, her silver eye pinning Brik.
"Don't,"
she said, her voice a blade, low and final. She didn't look at Teon, but her hand tightened on her knife, like she was guarding something broken. Brik raised his hands, mock surrender, but his grin faded, and he reached for her wrist—a twitch of his fingers, like last night. She didn't pull away, but her silence was louder than words, a scar they both carried from the pits.
Doma's cane tapped once, hard.
"It's no prayer,"
he said, his voice cracked but heavy, like stone grinding.
"It's a call. And something's answering."
He pointed his cane at the spiral in the fountain, its edges curling like the thorns in the Gut's alleys.
"You ever wonder why the kids carve? They don't know. But their blood does."
His red-ringed eyes met Teon's, and for a moment, the air felt too thin, like the world was tilting toward a truth no one wanted.
Teon turned away, his mark burning so hot he half-expected it to tear through his skin.
"We've got a job,"
he said, forcing his voice steady.
"Tower. Now."
But his eyes lingered on the spiral, on the crows, on the merchant's stall, where the man was gone, leaving only a scrap of cloth with a burned sigil—a crow with three eyes, its beak open, like it was screaming.
Inside the tower, the air was stale, heavy with dust and secrets. Gregor waited in a chamber lit by a single torch, its flame too red, too hungry. His ledger was closed, but Teon saw the dog-eared page, the red ink bleeding through.
"Herbs and sigils," Gregor said, voice flat, eyes avoiding Teon's. "Deliver them to the Hollowreach gate by dusk. Don't ask questions." He slid a crate across the table, its lid carved with a spiral, faint but unmistakable.
Sura's fingers twitched, her blisters redder now, like they felt the crate's weight. "What's in it?" she asked, her voice steady but her eyes sharp, like she already knew the answer
Gregor's jaw tightened. "What you're paid for," he snapped, but his hands shook, betraying him.
"Go."
The crows outside cawed, louder now, their chant echoing Sura's lullaby: Forget their names, forget their names.
Teon lifted the crate, its weight heavier than herbs, heavier than sigils. His mark burned, a pulse that matched the spiral on the lid, and for a heartbeat, he heard it—a whisper, not his, not human: The flame is coming. He met Gregor's eyes, saw the fear there, the guilt, the ledger's truth he couldn't speak.
Above, on the tower's slits, the crows watched, their eyes endless, and somewhere in the Gut, a child hummed the lullaby, out of tune, out of time. Teon led the squad out, the crate a wound in his hands, knowing Ruttenmark was bleeding—and he was its scar.