Moonrise waits somewhere behind brick. Night leans into the lanes, and the lantern sits heavier-good in my hand like a promise that knows the bill.
Root sketches a chalk loop on the table: Pantry → Two-Post Alley → Tax Steps → Name Bank → roofline return. "Fast in, faster out," they say. "Minute-chains feed a central plinth. Jar vault to the east. We leave it able to count soup, not souls."
Lelia ties salt-mint thread around my wrist. "You come home," she says, not asking. Nim sleeps with the spoon against their cheek like a small moon. Kirella checks my belt and then his own as if habit were love and we're too busy to name it.
I nick my palm.
Only a small cut. The blood slides warm over my thumb; I breathe once, then draw it out and around with two fingers—slow arc, wrist low—until a curved red blade gathers from my skin like steam deciding to be shape. In the lantern's warmth the edge hardens translucent, a crescent caught mid-swing.
The scythe hums in my palm, wanting to be longer, wanting a fight.
"Count with me or I'll count for both of us," Kirella murmurs at my shoulder.
"We share the number," I answer.
Syth tips the shard; it holds key like a held breath. Ira checks wedges. Post Hook rolls his shoulders. Wool Thread tucks a bowl-name slip into her sleeve as if paper ever protected anyone but we're teaching it manners.
We go.
—
Two-Post Alley smells like rope and last week's rain. I draw a ribbon of ring-steps along the cobbles—little warm coins for feet to trust. We move in Promise Choir hush: no voice, only the rhythm of breath. The lantern's glow lies low, not shy, just careful.
The first trouble comes on soft nails. Two kennel hounds lope from a yard slit—vat-bred, eyes like bowls someone forgot to fill, meat-thick with a cleverness no one ever taught them how to use. Not "good monsters." No one taught them how to be anything.
They sniff our ring and snarl at the idea of we.
I step forward, Scythe small, and let the blade kiss low—touch-nick at each foreleg, a whisper that barely breaks fur. I feel the debt of it in my wrist. Not much. Enough.
Kirella's thumb finds mine on the lantern. One—two—three—four.
On four, I pull with breath and count—not at their bodies, at their blood. The night answers. The thin nicks turn to commands inside them; pressure meets simple plumbing and—without splash or mess—their legs fold. Two clean collapses. The hounds go still, like a bad trick ending. Not a kill that enjoys itself. A shut door.
I don't use that on people. I won't. The rule sits in my chest with the Scythe's hum. We move.
—
The Name Bank wears a front of stone arrogance. Brass letters across the lintel shine with practiced piety: THE ACCOUNT OF ALL MOUTHS. The door pretends to be humble—wood, a small bell at the pull—but the hinges hold paper pleats, glossed and smug.
Syth breathes on three and tilts the shard. The seam hesitates. Ira eases a wedge. I slide the Scythe's curve along the hinge like a violinist teaching a string the right path. Paper seal parts. The bell thinks about ringing and forgets. We slip in.
The front hall smells like old ink and fruit that learned the wrong kind of sweet. Two jar-keepers look up—neat aprons, glass batons, faces that practiced indifference in mirrors. A clerk behind a desk lifts a pen like a weapon and a prayer both.
Kirella meets the first baton with his cloak, wraps, yanks, trips; the man learns floor. The second swings. I step inside, Scythe's hooks his baton and pulls it through the angle of my arm. Elbow to ribs—air leaves him like a debt forgiven late. He drops without breaking.
The clerk fumbles for an alarm cord. Syth slaps WORD = WAIT on the lintel with the plate. The cord remembers its manners and hangs there, embarrassed.
The hall opens to a nave where minute-chains hang in rows like a garden no one waters with love. Each bead drips into a central plinth whose mouth is wide and polite about it. The sound is smug rain again.
"Let's starve it," I say.
I kneel by the first pillar, drop minute-trap coins, and chalk-link them to a sigil: KEEP LEDGER. Syth flicks two switches behind a door that didn't plan to have switches. Ira locks a bar and looks innocent about it.
Chains twitch. The drip shifts left, then sideways, then into stone where no program waits—only our we. The plinth mouth purses like a man who just learned no was an option.
An inner door bangs open.
Three more jar-keepers shove a gate aside and let loose three feral hounds. The air fills with the wrong kind of breath.
Tight corridor. No room for dance. Good.
I keep the Scythe's short. First hound lunges. I low-arc—behind the knee, then a flat shove with my shoulder. It stumbles into Kirella's leg; he turns a hip and assists the floor in doing its job. I catch the second hound on a hook and let the curve roll it past me; the edge nicks. The third finds Ira and learns about walls.
One—two—three—four. On four the little cuts become commands; I pull with breath and promise; inside their bodies, blood obeys the longest rule. All three fold without spectacle.
The jar-keepers stare as if the room performed a trick they didn't buy tickets for. Kirella moves between Syth and the nearest baton, hand open. "Don't," he says, and the man hears a childhood teacher in his voice and listens.
We don't kill them. We don't have to. We go deeper.
—
The vault door is mirror-lipped, faint glitter clinging to the groove. The Scythe's hums in disapproval at a throat that would eat names. Syth cups the shard; breath on three detunes the lip. I draw a tight ring on the sill and pull warmth into it until stone remembers kitchen. The mirror dies a hand's width along the frame, enough for the latch to learn yes.
Inside, neat shelves of jars sleep with labels slit to fit different throats: MINUTES—MINOR; MINUTES—PENITENT; NAMES—FOREVER (polite italics). Two captives sit on rolling chairs—half-collared—paper pleats tucked under metal at their throats like a knife that wants to be called jewelry.
"Hey," I say, the soft kitchen voice. "We'll just take this off."
Brine seam along the collar lips—thin, steady. Paper remembers water is its mother; the pleats wilt; the rings fall into my hand like bracelets that just learned awe. Ira lifts the first captive—eyes blinking, breath surprised—and settles them to his hip. The second stands on shaking knees and does not apologize for it.
Syth moves like she's organizing a desk and in the same breath empties a lifetime: priority ledgers off a high shelf—Name Index; Minutes Log; Transfer Book—into sacks. I swing the Scythe's back of blade into support wires to ease shelves down instead of out—jars settle safe, no shatter, no panic.
The vault exhales a small hurt noise as if cheated of a tantrum. Good.
We turn, sacks full, people steadied—and a new choke waits in the hall.
A junior lockwright with sleeves too clean and two orderlies with glass batons bar the way. The lockwright smiles like a man who thinks he invented cause and effect. "Admit your minutes," he says briskly, and gestures to the plinth beyond. "Or tally will be forced."
I step into the narrow without meeting his eyes. Meeting men's eyes makes them think things are about them. The first orderly jabs with the baton. I bind with the Scythe's shaft—my forearm behind the curve—turn his wrist down, step through, use my shoulder as hinge. His knuckles bang stone. Baton goes loose. I take it and slide it back under his arm. He sits with a very surprised sound.
The second comes high. Kirella's cloak eats the arc; his foot sweeps; the baton hits floor and learns manners. He keeps the man there with a knee and a wordless instruction that works better than orders.
The junior lifts a slender glass rod, uncertain between power and policy. Syth stamps WORD = KEEP on the floor at his feet. His stance sticks. It is very hard to look official when your shoes love a word more than you.
"Drop," Kirella tells him. He does, very professionally. Ira collects the rod and puts it somewhere it will annoy no one.
We press into the nave again. The central plinth has decided to be helpful; it gathers breath at the lip and tries to speak. My name stirs at the bottom of its mouth like a fish you shouldn't have fed.
"No," I tell it, and plant the Scythe's point in the crease where mouth meets math. I draw ring-staples around the rim—short bright arcs that say stay. Kirella throws a rope over the plinth's neck and sets a kept-knot that offends clever things. Ira finds a tie-rod under the lip and kicks. Metal barks. The mouth locks. The chain ticks go from self-satisfied to sulky and then to quiet.
"Firebreak," Syth says.
We light pepper-mint cones in vents. They drink their own smell and choke a little. Banks hate remembering they have throats.
I shorten the Scythe—half a hand, then a hand more. The cost eases off my wrist and leaves a thin ache. My knee remembers the hound's shoulder. I stay standing because we're busy.
"Ready," Ira says, captives balanced, sacks tight. He isn't breathing hard. I'm jealous.
We take the side stair, because pride uses the front and we're not here to be seen.
—
The roof smells like night on soap and a ledger that forgot to dress for weather. Moon silver sits on tile and gutter; the lantern wears the dark like a friend. Rings sing easy underfoot now—warm coins along the pitch, a tight seam at the ridge.
Below, the city hums—the low market clatter, a river whisper, a distant bell that might be a real bell or a man who wants to be one. Far out, something answers the tide with a groan the size of industry. No-Sky Port warming its bad jaw.
"Left," Root's chalk whispers from the parapet where they drew an arrow earlier tonight. We follow it to a lower roof with a scaffold just far enough to make cowardice sensible. Two orderlies and a clerical marshal swirl up the stair behind us with their neat jackets and their long morning faces misplaced in night.
"I'll stall," Kirella says.
"We don't stall," I say. "We end conversations."
The marshal tries very hard to look important. On another night, I would be patient about dignity. Not with sacks and people and a moon that shortens the distance between us and trouble.
The first orderly plants his baton like a flag. I step close, Scythe lengthens a hand on the exhale—there is a cost; I pay it with the place under my ribs that holds winter. The hook catches his hilt; I spin my hips; the glass shatters against the ridge tile. He stares at the short broken in his fist like someone stole an hour from his day.
The marshal raises his staff. Kirella moves first: cloak inside, wrist outside, twist. "Drop," he says again, quieter, as if practicing. The staff leaves the marshal like an opinion he didn't want.
The second orderly feints. I let the Scythe's back knock his baton out of line and kick his shin into the gutter. He goes over the parapet into canvas below with the put-upon gasp of a man who will have to lie about his night later. He will live. Good.
Syth slaps WORD on a tile by the stair mouth—WAIT. The last two feet of chase learn patience. We don't.
We run the ridge. Ira carries like he was born to it. Post Hook proves that some prayers are just breath used for work. Wool Thread keeps hand on Syth's sleeve a little less and then not at all. The lantern keeps the roof true.
We hit the gap. The scaffold is two men and a plank wide. Below, the alley gulps. Moonlight makes the far rail look farther.
"On four," Kirella says, rope at my waist also at his, knot that remembers practice yards and a promise about ten quiet years. One—two—three—four.
We jump.
For a heartbeat the world pauses to think about envy. Then the plank accepts us and the scaffold flexes and somebody swears in a tight-fisted way that means love not fear. We land where we choose.
From this height the river breeze finds us. It carries a bell—short, tidy, twice—then a third time slightly off like a man testing sound at the edge of a dock. No-Sky Port. Needlehouse waking. The cylinder's words replay in my head: ferry window, moon-rise. Tonight.
"We've got ledgers," Syth says, breath even enough to be proud. "Two captives. No fleas. The Bank will sulk for a week."
"Plinth won't speak," Ira adds. "If it does, it'll say we."
"Go home," Kirella says to the rescued, eyes gentler than he lets hands show. "Doors that say KEEP will know you. Ask for Lelia."
The older captive squares their shoulders. "I can walk," they say, as if daring a wall to move. The younger nods, tight. We set them with Wool Thread and Post Hook; Root's chalk leaves them a lane back to Blue Pantry none of us can see and all of us trust.
We turn roofward toward river—toward a dock that calls itself a port and thinks the sky owes it a tax.
The Scythe wants to stay long. I make it small. The ache in my wrist says spent. Kirella's thumb taps my knuckles at the lantern handle in the old rhythm, reminder and permission.
"You're spending," he murmurs, breath close enough to count as shade.
"Count me," I say.
He does. One—two—three—four.
The blade shortens without sulking. The cost sits where it sits, but the edge stays ready. The moon tips silver on the gutter; the lantern hums we in the seam of tile and night. Somewhere below, in a building teaching itself shame, the Name Bank learns what it is to stop eating people.
We run toward the bell.
A red glove poster on a chimney tries to peel and watch; I put the Scythe's back to it as I pass, a nudge that says later. At the alley corner, a paper moth flutters, fails to spy, and learns why pepper-mint is not a spice you can boss.
The roofs tilt down to a long shed. Beyond it, masts like needles, rigging like webs, the low clatter of cargo dressing itself up as empire. The river shows its black coins. No-Sky Port turns its head.
We clear the last gap to a scaffold over a lane bright with moon and thin light from a holy-glass mast someone forgot to skew. Syth breathes three at the shard; the mast flinches like a sorry man. The beam looks elsewhere.
Behind us, a clerk finds the WAIT tile with his toes and learns humility a second time. The junior lockwright peers up from the far parapet and decides numbers are safer than running tonight.
We cross the scaffold. Wind from the river lifts the edge of Kirella's cloak and, for half a breath, my hair tastes air like a freed thing. I keep eyes floor because love is not an excuse to get burned by a sky that doesn't mean me harm and can't help it.
At the last rung, Root's chalk had left us a word: SOON. We drop to it. A lane opens into a view of the river mouth—flat black, the line of No-Sky like someone cut a piece of night out of the bigger night and refused to put it back.
The bell rings again—three notes this time, clean.
"Window," Syth says.
"Needlehouse," Ira answers.
Kirella touches my elbow, not to steer, only to say with.
"Us first," he says.
"Then the rest," I answer.
"Then ten quiet years," Wool Thread murmurs from behind us, voice small and certain, like a recipe a child knows by smell now.
We run toward the sound and the dark opening on water, Scythe's small and sharp in my palm, ring under our feet, moon like a coin we mean to spend exactly right.
And the chapter holds there—ledgers heavy in Syth's sack; the Bank's mouth stapled and sulking; two freed breaths headed home under KEEP doors; my wrist warm with the cost of being the blade; the river airing its black teeth; No-Sky Port chiming; and the line of Needlehouse on the water waiting like a throat we plan to teach new manners.