The Gut swallowed the squad whole, its alleys coiling like a serpent's spine, thorns clawing through cracked stone under a sky bruised purple.
Teon Grivalt led the way, the splintered crate tucked under his arm, its jagged, thorned spiral—etched like the log from his childhood snow—burning against his ribs. The blood-crusted scroll, warm and humming with a thousand distant whispers, was hidden in his leathers, its weight heavier than steel, heavier than Gregor's lies.
His Rot Mark flared, a claw under his skin, pulsing with each step, whispering The flame is coming. Crows perched on sagging rooftops, their eyes glinting, too many, watching like the third-eyed watcher from his dreams.
Sura Lenhart followed, her steps uneven, her blistered hand wrapped in a rag, the jagged spiral she'd bled at the gate now a faint scar, invisible to all but Teon. Her music box hung silent, its thorns catching the torchlight, mirroring the Gut's decay.
Brik Roan strode beside her, his iron bat slung over his shoulder, the Iron Dog brand on his glove stained with frost and blood.
Lune Roan kept pace, her silver eye scanning the shadows, her blind one shadowed, her knife still red from the ambush.
Doma Velk limped behind, his cane tapping a rhythm like a heartbeat, his red-ringed eyes fixed on the alley walls, where kids' graffiti—jagged spirals, thorned, half-erased—bled through the ash.
The tower loomed ahead, its blackened stone swallowing the dusk, Gregor's silhouette absent from the balcony.
Teon's mark burned hotter, the scroll's hum louder, like the lullaby his mother sang: The rot that remembers will name the world lost. Gregor's lie—Just growing pains—cut deeper now, the crate's spiral a mirror to the one he'd carved as a boy, under snow, under trust. The squad's silence was heavy, their scars—Teon's mark, Sura's blisters, Brik and Lune's pits, Doma's Clergy burns—binding them tighter than words.
Inside the tower, the air was stale, thick with dust and secrets. Gregor stood by his desk, the ledger open, its dog-eared page marked with a Clergy sigil—a three-eyed crow, its beak thorned, like the knives at the gate. His eyes flicked to the crate, then away, his hands trembling, betraying the guilt Teon had seen in the snow.
"You're late,"
Gregor snapped, voice flat but frayed, like a man standing on a crumbling edge.
Teon slammed the crate onto the desk, its lid splintering further, the jagged spiral glowing faintly as if it knew him.
"No herbs. No sigils,"
he said, voice low, sharp, a knife drawn.
"Just this."
He pulled the scroll from his leathers, its blood-crusted edge pulsing, the hum of whispers filling the room, clawing at his mind.
"What is it, Gregor? What did you send us to die for?"
Sura stepped forward, her rag-wrapped hand trembling, her eyes burning.
"It woke something,"
she said, voice soft but cutting.
"My hand—my blood—it answered."
She unwrapped the rag, revealing the faint spiral scar, visible only to Teon, its thorns matching the crate's, the graffiti outside, his childhood log.
Brik's bat lowered, his grin gone.
"What the hell's in you, Sura?"
he muttered, voice rough, eyes flicking to Lune, seeking her steadiness.
Lune's silver eye pinned Gregor, her knife still drawn, her voice a whisper.
"You knew."
It wasn't a question. Her hand twitched toward Brik's, a ghost of their Burnpit touch, but her words cut deeper, revealing a scar from the pits:
"They carved us too, in the dark. Not spirals, but close. Brands. Chains."
Her blind eye seemed to see Gregor's guilt, her voice breaking, a rare crack.
"You sent us to bleed."
Gregor staggered back, his hand brushing the ledger's crow sigil, his scar from the Clergy burning under his glove.
"I had no choice,"
he said, voice cracking, eyes on Teon, heavy with the snow of years ago.
"The Clergy—they watch. They know. The marked—"
He stopped, his gaze falling to the scroll, its jagged spiral alive, humming.
"It's not what you think. It's older. It's Hollowreach."
Doma's cane slammed the floor, the sound a gunshot in the silence.
"It's a call,"
he said, his red-ringed eyes blazing, like he'd read the scroll's truth in forbidden texts.
"The Hollowreach doesn't trade in herbs. It trades in blood."
He pointed to the alley outside, where a spiral graffiti pulsed faintly, thorned, like Sura's scar, like Teon's mark.
"You opened a door, Gregor. And something's coming through."
Teon's mark roared, a vision flashing—snow, his mother's lullaby, the third-eyed crow. Why does it hurt? He stepped closer, the scroll's hum deafening, its thorns digging into his palm.
"You raised me,"
he said, voice low, breaking, a boy's pain in a man's throat.
"You knew my mark. You sent us to die."
Gregor's eyes widened, guilt bleeding through, the same guilt from the Scarline, when he'd lied to a crying child.
"I protected you,"
Gregor whispered, but the words crumbled, ash in his mouth.
"The Clergy wanted you dead. I kept you alive."
His hand reached for Teon, then fell, trembling, as the crows outside cawed, their chant echoing Sura's lullaby: Forget their names, forget their names.
Sura clutched her hand, the spiral scar flaring, unseen by the others but burning in Teon's gaze.
"It's not just him,"
she said, voice shaking, meeting his eyes.
"It's us. The scroll—it knows us."
Lune stepped closer, her knife sheathed now, her silver eye soft, a rare mercy. Brik's bat hung limp, his voice low:
"We're in deep, Teon. Too deep."
The tower's torch flickered, its flame too red, too hungry. The scroll pulsed, its whispers louder, not human: The flame is coming. Teon tucked it back into his leathers, the crate's splintered lid a wound on the desk.
The jagged spiral graffiti outside glowed faintly, a call answered in blood. He led the squad out, past the crows, past the thorns, knowing Gregor's lies were a blade—and the Gut was bleeding.