The Hollowreach gate loomed like a skull, its iron bars jagged under a frost-bitten dusk.
Ruttenmark's Gut exhaled cold, the alleys behind the squad curling with mist, thorns snaking through cracked stone like veins of a dying beast.
Teon Grivalt led the way, the crate from Gregor's tower heavy in his arms, its spiral-carved lid—jagged, thorn-like, echoing the log he'd carved as a boy—burning under his palms. His Rot Mark flared, a claw under his leathers, pulsing with each step, whispering
The flame is coming.
He didn't look at the squad, didn't look at the crows massing on the gate's spikes, their eyes glinting like the third-eyed watcher from his childhood snow.
Sura Lenhart walked at his side, her satchel slung low, the music box's thorns glinting faintly in the dying light. Her blistered fingers twitched, redder now, as if the sigil she'd grazed in the alley had woken something in her blood. She hummed softly, not the lullaby, but a fragment—Crows forget their wings—her voice a thread fraying in the cold.
Brik Roan swaggered behind, his iron bat tapping his thigh, the Iron Dog brand on his glove catching the frost's sheen.
Lune Roan shadowed him, her silver eye scanning the mist, her blind one hidden, her knife's scrape a steady heartbeat against her whetstone.
Doma Velk limped last, his cane sinking into frost, his red-ringed eyes tracing patterns in the ground—spirals, faint, like the ones kids carved in the Gut.
The gate's shadow stretched long, its bars warped, as if melted by a fire long dead. Teon's mark burned hotter, the crate's weight heavier than herbs, heavier than sigils. Gregor's words—Don't ask questions—hung like a blade, and the memory of his childhood hand on Teon's shoulder, snow falling, cut deeper. Just growing pains. A lie. The spiral on the crate matched the one in his dreams, jagged, thorned, bleeding sap and frost.
"Eyes up,"
Teon said, voice low, cutting through the squad's silence. The Hollowreach gate was a choke point, a smuggler's haunt where knives came quick and questions died faster. The buyer—a merchant named Kael, scar-faced, with a limp worse than Doma's—was late. Too late.
Brik cracked his knuckles, grinning.
"Kael's playing games, eh? Bet he's counting our coin in some alley, laughing."
His bat tapped faster, a nervous tic, his eyes flicking to Lune. She didn't answer, but her whetstone stopped, her silver eye locking on a shadow moving in the mist.
"Shut it, Brik,"
Lune said, her voice a blade, sharp and final. Her hand hovered over her knife, ready, as if the shadow had a name. Sura's hum faltered, her fingers curling, blisters weeping blood now, a faint red glow pulsing under her skin, unseen by the others but burning in Teon's eyes, like his mark knew hers. He said nothing, his jaw tight.
Doma's cane tapped once, hard.
"He's not coming,"
he muttered, eyes on the frost, where a spiral pattern glinted, half-formed, like the one Teon carved as a boy.
"Kael's dead. Or worse."
His voice carried the weight of old scrolls, of truths the Ash Clergy burned.
The mist parted, and three figures emerged—cloaked, hooded, their faces shadowed but their knives glinting, etched with jagged spirals. Not Kael. Not merchants. Teon's mark screamed, a fire under his skin, and he dropped the crate, its lid splintering, revealing a blood-crusted scroll, its edges thorned, pulsing like the lockbox in Gregor's tower.
A hum like a thousand distant whispers rose from it as Teon's fingers grazed its edge, the sound curling into his bones, matching the mark's pulse. Sura gasped, her blisters flaring red, a jagged spiral forming under her skin, visible only to Teon, its thorns mirroring the crate's.
"Ambush,"
Teon growled, drawing his knife, its blade still flecked with sap from the Burnpit. The squad tightened, Brik raising his bat, Lune her knife, Doma stepping back, his cane a weapon now. The cloaked figures moved, silent, their knives carving the air like a ritual. One hissed, voice not human:
"The marked calls. The flame comes."
Sura stumbled, clutching her hand, blood dripping from her blisters, forming a jagged spiral on the frost, unseen by the others but burning in Teon's gaze. The air scorched, the mist twisting, as if her blood woke something older than Ruttenmark.
Teon lunged, his knife meeting the nearest figure's, steel sparking. His mark roared, a vision flashing—snow, Gregor's lie, the third-eyed crow.
Why does it hurt?
The figure fell, blood pooling, its knife's spiral glowing, thorned, alive.
Brik swung, his bat cracking a second figure's skull, the corpse's blood curling like thorns across the frost, echoing the spiral on Sura's hand.
Lune was faster, her blade slicing the third figure's throat, blood spraying the frost in a jagged pattern. The figure collapsed, whispering,
"The whisperer sees."
The crows above cawed, their chant echoing Sura's hum:
Forget their names, forget their names.
Sura sank to her knees, her hand glowing, the spiral fading but not gone, invisible to Brik, Lune, and Doma, but a wound in Teon's eyes. "
It's in me,"
she whispered, her gaze locking with his, raw, terrified.
"Like it's in you."
Her music box fell from her satchel, its thorns glinting, the same jagged shape as the crate, the frost, the mark.
"What the hell was that?"
Brik muttered, his bat still raised, his voice frayed, eyes darting to Lune. She didn't answer, her silver eye fixed on the mist, but her hand twitched toward his, a ghost of their Burnpit touch.
"We were never meant to open that crate,"
Doma whispered, his cane pointing to the splintered lid, his red-ringed eyes heavy with truths he couldn't speak.
Teon's mark pulsed, a second heart, and he saw it again—his mother's shadow, singing, The rot that remembers.
He grabbed the scroll, its parchment warm, alive, its jagged spiral matching his childhood log, humming with whispers that clawed his mind.
Doma's eyes widened, his cane trembling.
"That's no smuggler's haul,"
he said, voice cracked.
"That's a call to the Hollowreach."
The gate creaked, the mist swallowing the bodies, but the crows stayed, their eyes endless, watching. Teon lifted the crate, its splintered lid heavy with truth he couldn't name. Sura's hand bled, her spiral gone but etched in Teon's memory.
Brik and Lune stood close, their pit-born scars binding them tighter. The whisper lingered, not human:
The flame is coming.
Teon led the squad back into the Gut, the scroll hidden in his leathers, knowing Ruttenmark was a wound—and they were its blood.