"That was rather interesting," Mr. Lucius said as we made our way back up the hill.
His tone carried the mild amusement of a man commenting on weather that had killed other people.
"If it wasn't Cain and Abel, then who—" Victoria murmured beside me.
Ezra followed a few paces behind, one arm slung casually around a police officer who had not yet realized he was being carried. The officer's boots dragged through the dirt, leaving a faint, broken line—another thing the earth would forget.
"Maybe there are other myths we can explore," I offered, though the words tasted thin even as I spoke them.
Mr. Lucius did not answer. He walked ahead of us, cane tapping lightly against the path, as though counting something only he could hear.
The manor came back into view—white, composed, untouched. It sat atop the hill like a conclusion that had already been decided.
"Mr. Lucius," Victoria said at last, breaking the quiet. "How do I address someone like you?"
He stopped.
Turned.
Smiled.
"I would assume," he said gently, "that you are seeking a specific answer, Pale Duchess."
The title landed like a hand closing around my heart.
I turned to Victoria. I had heard the name before—had felt it brush past conversations like a draft under a door—but she had never seemed anything like nobility. No crown. No court. Just a girl with ink-stained fingers and questions that refused to behave.
"Well then," Mr. Lucius continued, straightening, "this should aid you."
The air changed.
Not violently. Not dramatically.
It leaned.
"O Gravity of Want," he intoned, voice deepening without raising, "black-hole heart of the first desire—arise."
My knees weakened. Not from fear. From recognition.
"Thou who art the Great Pull, the hunger that prevents the void from drifting—appear. O Anchor of the Finite, who tethered the spirit to the weight of 'I,' attend. I am Thy Gilded Shackle—the beautiful burden that makes existence solid."
Wind rushed inward, not from any direction but toward something. Toward me.
I lowered my head without meaning to, as though gravity itself had remembered my name.
"By the first thirst of the stars, by the longing of dust for flame, come forth. O Sovereign of Obsession, O Architect of the Eternal Knot—draw near."
The desire to prove myself flared suddenly, sharp and irrational. To be chosen. To be necessary.
"Thy crown is the Limit. Thy throne the heavycenter of the All. I summon Thee by the density of the soul, by the weight that cannot be shed. By the 'Yes' whispered before the tongue was formed. By the debt necessity owes the void."
Something fastened around me—not physically, not symbolically.
"Intimately,"
"O Gravity," he continued, "the force that makes a world of scattered sparks. O Want, the divine friction that keeps the spirit from escaping the dream."
The world bent closer. Even the sun seemed to hesitate, as though listening.
"Reveal the chain made of light. Reveal the prison made of love. Reveal the hunger that is the only proof of life."
Then—
Silence.
The weight receded, not gone but content. Like a hand loosening because it knew it would not be refused later.
"The Gilded Shackle," Mr. Lucius said softly. "Young Pale Duchess."
He smiled—not cruelly, not kindly.
Knowingly.
"A devil who knows the sin you would willingly commit—and defend."
The words struck deeper than accusation.
Because they weren't one.
I swallowed.
It dawned on me—not all at once, but like bruises surfacing hours after impact—that the devil you know best is the one who doesn't need to lie.
The one who simply agrees with you.
"Or the Severed Half," he added casually.
"Are they different?" Victoria asked, her voice hoarse.
"As different," he replied, "as the Pale Duchess and the Gilded Shackle."
"It's incomplete?" she pressed.
"That it is," he said, waving the matter aside like a dismissed servant.
She steadied herself, visibly changing gears, clinging to practicality like a railing.
"I was wondering if you could help me find the thirty pieces of silver."
I exhaled shakily, wiped sweat from my face, and finally noticed the world returning—the birds, the insects, the slow indifference of trees.
The officer had gone fully limp in Ezra's arms.
Victoria's hands were clenched tight in her dress.
"Is that what you want?" Mr. Lucius asked.
"Yes," she said.
Background sound rushed back in all at once, as if the world had been holding its breath.
We continued up the hill in heavy quiet.
And as we walked, I understood—not fully, not safely—that I had learned something.
Not a fact.
A constraint.
And whatever it was, it had already learned me.