The camp did not feel like the same place after the Ledger named them. Faces turned when they walked in. Bowls were set down a little faster. Kids were pulled back a step like someone had lit a candle too close to paper.
Kael stood near the fire and watched the smoke curl. The name burned in his mind — carved, slipped into the world like a coin into a slot machine. Twice marked. Hollow. The Key in his pocket felt small and heavy like a secret weight.
Riven clattered his spoon against the rim of his bowl, loud enough to make people look. "All right," he said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes, "so which of us gets the autograph session? I'll start signing cheeks for two tokens. First come, first served."
Seren shoved a scrap at him: Shut it. She pointed at Kael, then at the tent where other Walkers watched them and whispered.
Riven blinked, then folded the paper and tucked it into his pack like a prize. He leaned forward, voice low. "Okay, real talk. We can't camp here long. People will sell our names or use them. Lyra's got her fingers in everything."
Lyra, of course, was not far. She leaned on a crate like she'd always meant to be part of the firelight. "Why rush?" she asked, smiling. "You're news. Stay. Make coin. Stories get you protection if you pay right."
Kael met her gaze. "We aren't a show."
"Yet," Lyra said. "But the Ledger writes what people care for. Make them care your way." She tapped a neat stack of tokens. "If you want a hand — safe routes, set-ups, a slat to hide inside — I can move things. For a price."
Seren's pencil danced. Don't trust. She'll profit from pain. She didn't bother hiding the scrap.
Lyra's smile widened. "I run a business. I offer options. You take it or you don't. But be careful — staying in one place gets you famous in all the wrong ways."
Kael felt the truth of it like cold water. The camp had already turned. Being together made them a single bright thing the Ledger could point to. Splitting up might scatter the light — make them less obvious.
He thought of the Cathedral. Of the altar demanding names. Of the Warden that watched from carved shadow. The Ledger liked stories. It liked neat lines. A trio traveling together made a clear line.
Riven smacked his palm on the bench. "So we split like thieves in the night. I go win a purse. Kael, you go read some dusty book that tells us why stone is mean. Seren goes… do whatever cryptic research you do." He tried to laugh and it came thin.
Seren jabbed him with a quick note: I go to the Quiet Rooms. There is a keeper there who remembers bells. She underlined keeper hard.
Riven scoffed. "Great. She goes to paper monks and I go to fight men who bite. Sounds fair."
Kael listened and thought of the options. The Compass at his chest twitched in an odd way — not pointing, but nudging. He wanted answers. The Ledger was a net; knowledge might cut a hole.
He made the choice before he had time to talk himself out of it. "I'll go find the Scribe's Hollow," he said, trying for calm. "There are places where people trade memories for ink. Maybe there's a record about the Ledger — how it marks, how it erases, how to bend it."
Riven barked a laugh that turned ugly. "Scribe's Hollow — lore-nerd haven. Fine. I'll take the Shadow Pit. Earn tokens. Beat people. Make debt money." He punched a fist into the air like a butcher sealing a bargain.
Seren nodded once, quick and sure, and held up a scrap: Return. We come back together. One path each. She wrote another word small and precise: Promise. She handed it to Kael.
He slid the paper into his shirt. The word promised more than it seemed. Splitting would buy them space to breathe, but it would also stretch their trust. The Labyrinth loved stretched things. They snapped the best.
Lyra stood, pockets jingling with tokens. "If you separate, you'll need routes. Safe corners. Contacts. I can set you paths that don't scream. In exchange — bits of whatever you recover. Intelligence. Tokens. A favor." She made the last word sound like a low coin drop.
Kael looked at Riven. He saw the way his friend's jaw worked. Riven was brash, but he had the kind of stomach that didn't quit easy. He looked at Seren and saw the paper-sure line she'd written. He saw the ferocity in her silence.
Kael nodded. "We split. Two nights. Meet at the White Door — the seam by the Broken Clock. If you can't make it, leave a scrap." He tried to keep it short, sounded like a map. It felt like a test.
Riven grinned, sharp and true. "Two nights? Pfft. I'll bring back the best stew token you ever tasted." He swallowed, more earnest. "I'll be back."
Seren pulled a thin ribbon from her pack and tied it into a small loop, pressing it into Kael's palm. She wrote one final scrap and tucked it under the ribbon: Return or write. We keep the ledger honest. Her gray eyes held him for a long beat.
Lyra stepped close as they left, voice soft then: "Careful. The Ledger will watch for stray threads. Marks attract marks."
The gong rolled in the distance like a watchman's footfall. BOOOONG. It fell into the camp, patient and sure.
Kael buttoned his cloak, the ribbon cool in his hand. He felt the push and pull of the Ledger — a story beginning to tear into them. Splitting was a gamble: less obvious, but more dangerous in new ways. Each of them would be named or nearly erased alone.
They left at dusk. The fire pulled no more heat from them. Riven's laugh followed like a bright light. Seren's scraps were tucked into her belt like armor. Kael walked with the Key in the center of his chest — the compass warm and the word Hollow like a card tucked into a sleeve.
They didn't say long goodbyes. They didn't need to. They'd swapped pieces of themselves already, in scraps and vows and the knot of ribbon. That would have to do.
The camp watched them go. The Ledger—always patient—would write what it wanted. They would write back in the only way they could: one trial at a time.
BOOOONG.
The sound rolled after them, low and certain, like a line written in a wide, slow hand.