The shards of porcelain did not vanish completely. Though the mask dissolved into fog before our eyes, fragments remained—glittering pale on the cobblestones like teeth scattered after a brawl. They pulsed faintly with ink-light, tiny cracks glowing as though each shard still remembered the face it had once been.
I bent toward them, but the Ledger seared my ribs, pages snapping open:
Warning: Contact with Shards risks infection.
Effect: Shards may seek bearer.
Directive: Contain, not wield.
Seraphine's iron arm clamped around my shoulder, pulling me back sharply. "Don't even think of touching them. That thing wanted a face—it'll happily take yours if you give it the chance."
I rasped, throat raw: "And if someone else does?"
She glanced at the alleys. Citizens lingered at the edges of the square, eyes wide, their own cracked masks hanging loosely from their faces. Hunger shone there—not hunger for food, but for meaning. A shard offered identity to those hollowed by silence. They would fight for it.
The Ledger flared another line:
Shards attract witnesses. Interval continues until fragments gathered.
Seraphine cursed under her breath. "Then we gather them before the city does."
We worked quickly. I used the edge of the Ledger's binding to scrape the shards into a satchel, avoiding direct touch. Each fragment hissed faintly, releasing a curl of fog. The citizens stirred, muttering, their voices half-snatched by silence. One man lunged, face half-fused with wood and cloth, grasping for the satchel. Seraphine's iron fist struck his chest, hurling him backward. He hit the cobblestones and scrambled away, wailing.
The crowd pressed closer, a tide of cracked masks and hollow gazes. They whispered my name, over and over, the sound warped, each syllable stretched as though by different throats: "Varrow, Varrow, Varrow."
I staggered. The Ledger throbbed, urging:
Directive: Flee. Interval will collapse if fragments removed.
We pushed through the mist-choked streets, the citizens following like a broken procession. Their whispers trailed us, sometimes rising into shrieks, sometimes falling into sobs. They did not strike, not yet. They waited for me to falter, for a shard to slip.
By dusk, we reached the counting-house again. Inside, Seraphine bolted the door, her iron arm bracing the wood as it shuddered under the weight of fists pounding outside. I spilled the satchel across the floor. The shards clinked like brittle bones, glowing faintly in the dim firelight.
Each one pulsed in rhythm, a heartbeat not my own. Together, they almost sang—fragments of a hymn stitched from broken throats. I covered my ears, but the sound crawled into my marrow. My candle-mark sputtered, flame leaning toward the shards as if drawn.
The Ledger wrote across its page:
Debtor Remnant: The Blank Saint's Shards.
Options for Containment:
Grind into dust. Cost: One marrow beat per shard.Seal with confession. Cost: One truth for each shard.Bind with Ledger. Cost: Bearer identity diminished.
Seraphine leaned over the book, jaw tight. "All of those will kill you faster."
I croaked, "And if we do nothing?"
As if in answer, the shards pulsed brighter. A crack split across the floorboards, fog seeping upward. The hymn rose louder, fragments aligning into a chorus. I saw faces in the glow—not saints, not citizens, but empty masks waiting to be filled.
Seraphine slammed her iron fist against the boards, cracking them. "Then we'll burn this whole room before they choose another face."
The Ledger pulsed violently, rejecting her words. Not fire. Balance.
I fell to my knees, clutching the book, staring at the fragments. My throat bled silence, but I forced the words: "They want… truth."
Seraphine caught my gaze. "Then give them one you can survive."
The Ledger seared, demanding payment. I reached into myself, clawing for something buried, something sharp enough to break the shards but not so deep it shattered me. The words scraped out, each one tearing splinters from my throat:
"I am afraid the Ledger is writing me out."
The shards screamed—high, brittle, shattering in unison. Light burst upward, carving cracks through the rafters. The citizens outside wailed, their fists ceasing. When the light faded, only dust remained, scattered across the floor like ash.
The Ledger inked its verdict:
Debtor Remnant Contained. Balance Partial.
Cost: One truth. Bearer integrity further diminished.
I collapsed, Seraphine catching me before I struck the boards. Her iron arm hissed, but her human hand was steady. "That was too close," she whispered. Then, harsher: "You're not surviving another truth like that, Varrow."
But the Ledger whispered its own line, curling into my bones:
Curtain rises. Next saint waits.
—End of Chapter 30—