The dust lay scattered across the counting-house floor, pale against the warped boards. It shimmered faintly, a residue of faces that had almost become saints. Each breath stirred it, sending motes drifting into the candlelight. They moved like ash, yet each spark carried memory, whispering faint syllables that clung to the air before fading.
I sat slumped against the wall, the Ledger heavy in my lap, its cover warm as if it had swallowed flame. My throat burned with the confession I had forced, silence splintering deeper into me. Every word I tried to form rattled like broken glass. Seraphine crouched by the dust, her iron arm shielding the pile from stray drafts. Her expression was a hard mask, but I saw the unease behind it.
"Even shattered, it's not gone," she muttered. "Look."
She touched the edge of the dust with her boot. The motes stirred and aligned into the faint outline of a face—blank, waiting. She hissed and stepped back, steam venting from her arm. "It's still searching for someone to wear it."
The Ledger opened of its own accord, ink spilling across the page:
Debtor Remnant persists. Dust seeks vessel.
Directive: Seal before witness breathes it.
Warning: Delay risks resurrection of the Blank Saint.
I forced a rasp, barely audible: "Options?"
The page inked furiously:
Bind dust within Ledger. Cost: Bearer's identity eroded further.Scatter to canals. Cost: One marrow beat for every current.Confess again—truth as weight to grind the dust. Cost: Fractured voice collapses.
Seraphine read and slammed her fist into the wall, splinters flying. "Every path cuts you deeper. There must be another way."
I shook my head. The Ledger never lied about cost. Never gave mercy. It was balance, cruel and exact.
Outside, the citizens had not dispersed. Their murmurs leaked through the shutters, whispers of Varrow, of shards, of saints. Some still clawed at their cracked masks. The dust's faint glow bled through the boards, drawing them like moths to flame. A child's cry rose, thin and hollow: "Give us faces."
Seraphine stiffened. "They'll break the door soon. If the dust finds them…"
The Ledger throbbed violently, demanding action. I clutched it, bones trembling. My candle-mark flickered weakly, flame stretched thin. I could not survive another truth. My marrow was near ash. But scattering the dust to the canals—my body might not endure the beats it demanded.
I closed my eyes, fighting the weight of decision. Silence pressed in. Then Seraphine's hand—her real hand, scarred but human—gripped my shoulder. "If you burn yourself out, the city wins. Don't give it everything yet. Find the cost you can still pay."
Her words grounded me. I opened the Ledger again and pressed my candle-mark to its page. Light seared outward, seeping into the dust. The motes writhed, resisting, whispering fragments of my own voice, Aurelius' voice, the false saint's silence. My spine arched, pain ripping through marrow already thinned. Two beats torn from me, maybe more. But the dust dimmed, motes collapsing into the page. The Ledger swallowed them whole, binding the fragments into its ink.
The verdict etched itself across the parchment:
Debtor Remnant Absorbed. Balance Achieved.
Cost: Two marrow beats. Bearer's lifespan shortened further.
I sagged forward, coughing black, my body hollowing. Seraphine caught me, lowering me gently. Her jaw tightened. "You can't keep bleeding yourself for every fragment. One day soon there won't be enough left to pay."
I tried to answer, but no sound came. Only silence, splintered and raw. The Ledger pulsed faintly against my ribs, whispering its cold refrain:
Curtain held. Next act imminent.
When the citizens outside finally dispersed, they did not cheer. They whispered still, speaking of masks, of dust, of a clerk who devoured faces into a book. Their eyes, when they glanced at the counting-house, carried both fear and hunger. They would not forget. They never did.
Seraphine bolted the shutters and sat heavily beside me, her iron arm hissing. For the first time since Aurelius' death, she let her head rest briefly against the wall, her gaze fixed on nothing. "We're burning through acts too quickly," she said softly. "Soon there'll be nothing left to play."
The Ledger shifted in my lap, pages rustling without wind. A single phrase inked itself across the margin:
The play never ends. Only the players do.
—End of Chapter 31—